GIGOLO 


GIGOLO 


BY 

EDNA  FERBER 


AUTHOELOF 

SO  BIG,  EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO., 
FANNY  HERSELF,  THE  GIRLS,  ETC. 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW     YORK 

Made  in  the  United  State*  of  America 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

COPYRIGHT,  I920,  BY  McCLURE's  MAGAZINE,  INCORPORATED 
COPYRIGHT,  I92I,  BY  P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON  COMPANY  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

GREAT  BRITAIN  AND  CANADA 

COPYRIGHT,   I922,     BY  THE  CROWEtL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 
AND  THE  PICTORIAL  REVIEW  COMPANY 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 
THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS 

MM 

THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN 1 

OLD  MAN  MINICK 34 

GIGOLO - 69 

NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE 106 

HOME  GIRL 150 

AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL! 188 

THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES 222 

IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL  !     .     .  259 


GIGOLO 


GIGOLO 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN 

f^  R  CHOUGH  he  rarely  heeded  its  summons — 
cagy  boy  that  he  was — the  telephone  rang 

-"-  oftenest  for  Nick.  Because  of  the  many 
native  noises  of  the  place,  the  telephone  had  a  spe 
cial  bell  that  was  a  combination  buzz  and  ring.  It 
sounded  above  the  roar  of  outgoing  cars,  the  splash 
of  the  hose,  the  sputter  and  hum  of  the  electric  bat 
tery  in  the  rear.  Nick  heard  it,  unheeding.  A 
voice — Smitty's  or  Mike's  or  Elmer's — answering 
its  call.  Then,  echoing  through  the  grey,  vaulted 
spaces  of  the  big  garage:  "Nick!  Oh,  Ni-ick!" 

From  the  other  side  of  the  great  cement-floored 
enclosure,  or  in  muffled  tones  from  beneath  a  car: 
"Whatcha  want?" 

"Dame  on  the  wire." 

"I  ain't  in." 

The  obliging  voice  again,  dutifully  repeating  the 
message:  "He  ain't  in.  ...  Well,  it's  hard  to 
say.  He  might  be  in  in  a  couple  hours  and  then 

l 


2  GIGOLO 


e  might  not  be  back  till  late.  I  guess  he's 
went  to  Hammond  on  a  job  -  "  (Warming  to 
his  task  now.)  "Say,  won't  I  do?  .  .  .  Who's 
fresh  !  Aw,  say,  lady!" 

You'd  think,  after  repeated  rebuffs  of  this  sort, 
she  could  not  possibly  be  so  lacking  in  decent  pride 
as  to  leave  her  name  for  Smitty  or  Mike  or  Elmer 
to  bandy  about.  But  she  invariably  did,  baffled  by 
Nick's  elusiveness.  She  was  likely  to  be  any  one  of 
a  number.  Miss  Bauers  phoned:  Will  you  tell  him, 
please?  (A  nasal  voice,  and  haughty,  with  the 
hauteur  that  seeks  to  conceal  secret  fright.)  Tell 
him  it's  important.  Miss  Ahearn  phoned:  Will 
you  tell  him,  please?  Just  say  Miss  Ahearn. 
A-h-e-a-r-n.  Miss  Olson:  Just  Gertie.  But  often- 
est  Miss  Bauers. 

Cupid's  messenger,  wearing  grease-grimed  over 
alls  and  the  fatuous  grin  of  the  dalliant  male,  would 
transmit  his  communication  to  the  uneager  Nick. 

"  'S  wonder  you  wouldn't  answer  the  phone  onct 
yourself.  Says  you  was  to  call  Miss  Bauers  any 
time  you  come  in  between  one  and  six  at  Hyde 
Park  —  wait  a  min't'  —  yeh  —  Hyde  Park  6079,  and 
any  time  after  six  at  -  " 

"Wha'd  she  want?" 

"Well,  how  the  hel^  should  /  know!  Says  call 
Miss  Bauers  any  time  between  one  and  six  at  Hyde 
Park  6  -  " 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN  3 

"Swell  chanst.     Swell  chanst !" 

Which  explains  why  the  calls  came  oftenest  for 
Nick.  He  was  so  indifferent  to  them.  You  pic 
tured  the  patient  and  persistent  Miss  Bauers,  or 
the  oxlike  Miss  Olson,  or  Miss  Ahearn,  or  just 
Gertie  hovering  within  hearing  distance  of  the  tele 
phone  listening,  listening — while  one  o'clock  deep 
ened  to  six — for  the  call  that  never  came;  plucking 
up  fresh  courage  at  six  until  six  o'clock  dragged  on 
to  bedtime.  When  next  they  met:  "I  bet  you  was 
there  all  the  time.  Pity  you  wouldn't  answer  a  call 
when  a  person  leaves  their  name.  You  could  of 
give  me  a  ring.  I  bet  you  was  there  all  the  time." 

"Well,  maybe  I  was." 

Bewildered,  she  tried  to  retaliate  with  the  boomer 
ang  of  vituperation. 

How  could  she  know?  How  could  she  know  that 
this  slim,  slick  young  garage  mechanic  was  a  wood 
land  creature  in  disguise — a  satyr  in  store  clothes — 
a  wild  thing  who  perversely  preferred  to  do  his  own 
pursuing?  How  could  Miss  Bauers  know — she  who 
cashiered  in  the  Green  Front  Grocery  and  Market 
on  Fifty-third  Street?  Or  Miss  Olson,  at  the 
Rialto  ticket  window?  Or  the  Celtic,  emotional 
Miss  Ahearn,  the  manicure?  Or  Gertie  the  goof? 
They  knew  nothing  of  mythology;  of  pointed  ears 
and  pug  noses  and  goat's  feet.  Nick's  ears,  to  their 
fond  gaze,  presented  an  honest  red  surface  pro- 


4  GIGOLO 

truding  from  either  side  of  his  head.  His  feet,  in 
tan  laced  shoes,  were  ordinary  feet,  a  little  more 
than  ordinarily  expert,  perhaps,  in  the  convolutions 
of  the  dance  at  Englewood  Masonic  Hall,  which  is 
part  of  Chicago's  vast  South  Side.  No ;  a  faun, 
to  Miss  Bauers,  Miss  Olson,  Miss  Ahearn,  and  just 
Gertie,  was  one  of  those  things  in  the  Lincoln  Park 
Zoo. 

Perhaps,  sometimes,  they  realized,  vaguely,  that 
Nick  was  different.  When,  for  example,  they  tried 
— and  failed — to  picture  him  looking  interestedly  at 
one  of  those  three-piece  bedroom  sets  glistening  like 
pulled  taffy  in  the  window  of  the  installment  furni 
ture  store,  while  they,  shy  yet  proprietary,  clung 
to  his  arm  and  eyed  the  price  ticket.  Now  $98.50. 
You  couldn't  see  Nick  interested  in  bedroom  sets, 
in  price  tickets,  in  any  of  those  settled,  fixed,  every 
day  things.  He  was  fluid,  evasive,  like  quicksilver, 
though  they  did  not  put  it  thus. 

Miss  Bauers,  goaded  to  revolt,  would  say  pet 
tishly  :  "You're  like  a  mosquito,  that's  what.  Person 
never  knows  from  one  minute  to  the  other  where 
you're  at." 

"Yeh,"  Nick  would  retort.  "When  you  know 
where  a  mosquito's  at,  what  do  you  do  to  him? 
Plenty.  I  ain't  looking  to  be  squashed." 

Miss  Ahearn,  whose  public  position  (the  Hygienic 
Barber  Shop.  Gent's  manicure,  50c.)  offered  un- 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN  5 

limited  social  opportunities,  would  assume  a  gay 
indifference.  "They's  plenty  boys  begging  to  take 
me  out  every  hour  in  the  day.  Swell  lads,  too.  I 
ain't  waiting  round  for  any  greasy  mechanic  like 
you.  Don't  think  it.  Say,  lookit  your  nails ! 
They'd  queer  you  with  me,  let  alone  what  else  all 
is  wrong  with  you." 

In  answer  Nick  would  put  one  hand — one  broad, 
brown,  steel-strong  hand  with  its  broken  discoloured 
nails — on  Miss  Ahearn's  arm,  in  its  flimsy  geor 
gette  sleeve.  Miss  Ahearn's  eyelids  would  flutter 
and  close,  and  a  little  shiver  would  run  with  icy-hot 
feet  all  over  Miss  Ahearn. 

Nick  was  like  that. 

Nick's  real  name  wasn't  Nick  at  all — or  scarcely 
at  all.  His  last  name  was  Nicholas,  and  his  parents, 
long  before  they  became  his  parents,  traced  their 
origin  to  some  obscure  Czechoslovakian  province — 
long  before  we  became  so  glib  with  our  Czechoslo 
vakia.  His  first  name  was  Dewey,  knowing  which 
you  automatically  know  the  date  of  his  birth.  It 
was  a  patriotic  but  unfortunate  choice  on  the  part 
of  his  parents.  The  name  did  not  fit  him ;  was  too 
mealy;  not  debonair  enough.  Nick.  Nicky  in 
tenderer  moments  (Miss  Bauers,  Miss  Olson,  Miss 
Ahearn,  just  Gertie,  et  al.). 

His  method  with  women  was  firm  and  somewhat 
stern,  but  never  brutal.  He  never  waited  for  them 


6  GIGOLO 

if  they  were  late.  Any  girl  who  assumed  that  her 
value  was  enhanced  in  direct  proportion  to  her 
tardiness  in  keeping  an  engagement  with  Nick  found 
herself  standing  disconsolate  on  the  corner  of  Fifty- 
third  and  Lake  trying  to  look  as  if  she  were  merely 
waiting  for  the  Lake  Park  car  and  not  peering 
wistfully  up  and  down  the  street  in  search  of  a  slim, 
graceful,  hurrying  figure  that  never  came. 

It  is  difficult  to  convey  in  words  the  charm  that 
Nick  possessed.  Seeing  him,  you  beheld  merely  a 
medium-sized  young  mechanic  in  reasonably  grimed 
garage  clothes  when  working;  and  in  tight  pants, 
tight  coat,  silk  shirt,  long-visored  green  cap  when 
at  leisure.  A  rather  pallid  skin  due  to  the  nature 
of  his  work.  Large  deft  hands,  a  good  deal  like 
the  hands  of  a  surgeon,  square,  blunt-fingered,  spat- 
ulate.  Indeed,  as  you  saw  him  at  work,  a  wire- 
netted  electric  bulb  held  in  one  hand,  the  other 
plunged  deep  into  the  vitals  of  the  car  on  which  he 
was  engaged,  you  thought  of  a  surgeon  performing 
a  major  operation.  He  wore  one  of  those  round 
skullcaps  characteristic  of  his  craft  (the  brimless 
crown  of  an  old  felt  hat).  He  would  deftly  remove 
the  transmission  case  and  plunge  his  hand  deep  into 
the  car's  guts,  feeling  expertly  about  with  his  engine- 
wise  fingers  as  a  surgeon  feels  for  liver,  stomach,  gall 
bladder,  intestines,  appendix.  When  he  brought  up 
his  hand,  all  dripping  with  grease  (which  is  the  warm 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN  7 

blood  of  the  car),  he  invariably  had  put  his  finger 
on  the  sore  spot. 

All  this,  of  course,  could  not  serve  to  endear  him 
to  the  girls.  On  the  contrary,  you  would  have 
thought  that  his  hands  alone,  from  which  he  could 
never  quite  free  the  grease  and  grit,  would  have 
caused  some  feeling  of  repugnance  among  the  lily- 
fingered.  But  they,  somehow,  seemed  always  to  be 
finding  an  excuse  to  touch  him:  his  tie,  his  hair,  his 
coat  sleeve.  They  seemed  even  to  derive  a  vicarious 
thrill  from  holding  his  hat  or  cap  when  on  an  out 
ing.  They  brushed  imaginary  bits  of  lint  from  his 
coat  lapel.  They  tried  on  his  seal  ring,  crying: 
"Oo,  lookit,  how  big  it  is  for  me,  even  my  thumb !" 
He  called  this  "pawing  a  guy  over";  and  the  lint 
ladies  he  designated  as  "thread  pickers." 

No;  it  can't  be  classified,  this  powerful  draw  he 
had  for  them.  His  conversation  furnished  no  clue. 
It  was  commonplace  conversation,  limited,  even  dull. 
When  astonished,  or  impressed,  or  horrified,  or 
amused,  he  said:  "Ken  yuh  feature  that!"  When 
emphatic  or  confirmatory,  he  said :  "You  tell  'em !" 

It  wasn't  his  car  and  the  opportunities  it  furnished 
for  drives,  both  country  and  city.  That  motley 
piece  of  mechanism  represented  such  an  assemblage 
of  unrelated  parts  as  could  only  have  been  made 
to  coordinate  under  Nick's  expert  guidance.  It 
was  out  of  commission  more  than  half  the  time,  and 


8  GIGOLO 

could  never  be  relied  upon  to  furnish  a  holiday. 
Both  Miss  Bauers  and  Miss  Ahearn  had  twelve- 
cylinder  opportunities  that  should  have  rendered 
them  forever  unfit  for  travel  in  Nick's  one-lung 
vehicle  of  locomotion. 

It  wasn't  money.  Though  he  was  generous  enough 
with  what  he  had,  Nick  couldn't  be  generous  with 
what  he  hadn't.  And  his  wage  at  the  garage  was 
$40  a  week.  Miss  Ahearn's  silk  stockings  cost  $4.50. 

His  unconcern  should  have  infuriated  them,  but 
it  served  to  pique.  He  wasn't  actually  as  uncon 
cerned  as  he  appeared,  but  he  had  early  learned  that 
effort  in  their  direction  was  unnecessary.  Nick  had 
little  imagination;  a  gorgeous  selfishness;  a  toler 
antly  contemptuous  liking  for  the  sex.  Naturally, 
however,  his  attitude  toward  them  had  been  some 
what  embittered  by  being  obliged  to  watch  their 
method  of  driving  a  car  in  and  out  of  the  Ideal 
Garage  doorway.  His  own  manipulation  of  the 
wheel  was  nothing  short  of  wizardry. 

He  played  the  harmonica. 

Each  Thursday  afternoon  was  Nick's  half  day 
off.  From  twelve  until  seven-thirty  he  was  free  to 
range  the  bosky  highways  of  Chicago.  When  his  car 
—he  called  it  "the  bus"— was  agreeable,  he  went 
awheel  in  search  of  amusement.  The  bus  being  in 
disposed,  he  went  afoot.  He  rarely  made  plans  in 
advance ;  usually  was  accompanied  by  some  success- 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN  9 

ful  telephonee.  He  rather  liked  to  have  a  silken 
skirt  beside  him  fluttering  and  flirting  in  the  breeze 
as  he  broke  the  speed  regulations. 

On  this  Thursday  afternoon  in  July  he  had  timed 
his  morning  job  to  a  miraculous  nicety  so  that  at 
the  stroke  of  twelve  his  workaday  garments  dropped 
from  him  magically,  as  though  he  were  a  male  (and 
reversed)  Cinderella.  There  was  a  wash  room  and 
a  rough  sort  of  sleeping  room  containing  two  cots 
situated  in  the  second  story  of  the  Ideal  Garage. 
Here  Nick  shed  the  loose  garments  of  labour  for  the 
fashionably  tight  habiliments  of  leisure.  Private 
chauffeurs  whose  employers  housed  their  cars  in  the 
Ideal  Garage  used  this  nook  for  a  lounge  and  smoker. 
Smitty,  Mike,  Elmer,  and  Nick  snatched  stolen 
siestas  there  in  the  rare  absences  of  the  manager. 
Sometimes  Nick  spent  the  night  there  when  forced 
to  work  overtime.  His  home  life,  at  best,  was  a 
sketchy  affair.  Here  chauffeurs,  mechanics,  wash 
ers  lolled  at  ease  exchanging  soft-spoken  gossip, 
motor  chat,  speculation,  comment,  and  occasional 
verbal  obscenity.  Each  possessed  a  formidable 
knowledge  of  that  neighbourhood  section  of  Chicago 
known  as  Hyde  Park.  This  knowledge  was  not 
confined  to  car  costs  and  such  impersonal  items,  but 
included  meals,  scandals,  relationships,  finances,  love 
affairs,  quarrels,  peccadillos.  Here  Nick  often 
played  his  harmonica,  his  lips  sweeping  the  metal 


10  GIGOLO 

length  of  it  in  throbbing  rendition  of  such  sure-fire 
sentimentality  as  The  Long,  Long  Trail,  or  Mammy, 
while  the  others  talked,  joked,  kept  time  with  tapping 
feet  or  wagging  heads. 

To-day  the  hot  little  room  was  empty  except  for 
Nick,  shaving  before  the  cracked  mirror  on  the  wall, 
and  old  Elmer,  reading  a  scrap  of  yesterday's  news 
paper  as  he  lounged  his  noon  hour  away.  Old  Elmer 
was  thirty-seven,  and  Nicky  regarded  him  as  an 
octogenarian.  Also,  old  Elmer's  conversation  bored 
Nick  to  the  point  of  almost  sullen  resentment.  Old 
Elmer  was  a  family  man.  His  talk  was  all  of  his 
family — the  wife,  the  kids,  the  flat.  A  garrulous 
person,  lank,  pasty,  dish-faced,  and  amiable.  His 
half  day  off  was  invariably  spent  tinkering  about  the 
stuffy  little  flat — painting,  nailing  up  shelves,  mend 
ing  a  broken  window  shade,  puttying  a  window,  play 
ing  with  his  pasty  little  boy,  aged  sixteen  months, 
and  his  pasty  little  girl,  aged  three  years.  Next 
day  he  regaled  his  fellow  workers  with  elaborate 
recitals  of  his  holiday  hours. 

"Believe  me,  that  kid's  a  caution.  Sixteen  months 
old,  and  what  does  he  do  yesterday?  He  unfastens 
the  ketch  on  the  back-porch  gate.  We  got  a  gate 
on  the  back  porch,  see."  (This  frequent  "see"  which 
interlarded  Elmer's  verbiage  was  not  used  in  an 
interrogatory  way,  but  as  a  period,  and  by  way  of 
emphasis.  His  voice  did  not  take  the  rising  inflec- 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN          11 

tion  as  he  uttered  it.)  "What  does  he  do,  he  opens 
it.  I  come  home,  and  the  wife  says  to  me :  'Say,  you 
better  get  busy  and  fix  a  new  ketch  on  that  gate  to 
the  back  porch.  Little  Elmer,  first  thing  I  know, 
he'd  got  it  open  to-day  and  was  crawling  out  almost.' 
Say,  can  you  beat  that  for  a  kid  sixteen  months " 

Nick  had  finished  shaving,  had  donned  his  clean 
white  soft  shirt.  His  soft  collar  fitted  to  a  miracle 
about  his  strong  throat.  Nick's  sartorial  effects 
were  a  triumph — on  forty  a  week.  "Say,  can't  you 
talk  about  nothing  but  that  kid  of  yours?  I  bet 
he's  a  bum  specimen  at  that.  Runt,  like  his  pa." 

Elmer  flung  down  his  newspaper  in  honest  indig 
nation  as  Nick  had  wickedly  meant  he  should.  "Is 
that  so!  Why,  we  was  wrastling  round — me  and 
him,  see — last  night  on  the  floor,  and  what  does  he 
do,  he  raises  his  mitt  and  hands  me  a  wallop  in  the 
stomick  it  like  to  knock  the  wind  out  of  me.  That's 
all.  Sixteen  months " 

"Yeh.  I  suppose  this  time  next  year  he'll  be 
boxing  for  money." 

Elmer  resumed  his  paper.  "What  do  you  know." 
His  tone  mingled  pity  with  contempt. 

Nick  took  a  last  critical  survey  of  the  cracked 
mirror's  reflection  and  found  it  good.  "Nothing, 
only  this :  you  make  me  sick  with  your  kids  and  your 
missus  and  your  place.  Say,  don't  you  never  have 
no  fun?" 


12  GIGOLO 

"Fun !  Why,  say,  last  Sunday  we  was  out  to  the 
beach,  and  the  kid  swum  out  first  thing  you 
know " 

"Oh,  shut  up !"  He  was  dressed  now.  He  slapped 
his  pockets.  Harmonica.  Cigarettes.  Matches, 
Money.  He  was  off,  his  long-visored  cloth  cap 
pulled  jauntily  over  his  eyes. 

Elmer,  bearing  no  rancour,  flung  a  last  idle  query : 
"Where  you  going?" 

"How  should  I  know?  Just  bumming  around. 
Bus  is  outa  commission,  and  I'm  outa  luck." 

He  clattered  down  the  stairs,  whistling. 

Next  door  for  a  shine  at  the  Greek  bootblack's. 
Enthroned  on  the  dais,  a  minion  at  his  feet,  he 
was  momentarily  monarchial.  How's  the  boy? 
Good?  Same  here.  Down,  his  brief  reign  ended. 
Out  into  the  bright  noon-day  glare  of  Fifty-third 
Street. 

A  fried-egg  sandwich.  Two  blocks  down  and 
into  the  white-tiled  lunchroom.  He  took  his  place 
in  the  row  perched  on  stools  in  front  of  the  white 
slab,  his  feet  on  the  railing,  his  elbows  on  the  counter. 
Four  white-aproned  vestals  with  blotchy  skins  per 
formed  rites  over  the  steaming  nickel  urns,  slid 
dishes  deftly  along  the  slick  surface  of  the  white  slab, 
mopped  up  moisture  with  a  sly  grey  rag.  No  non 
sense  about  them.  This  was  the  rush  hour.  Hungry 
men  from  the  shops  and  offices  and  garages  of  the 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN          13 

district  were  bent  on  food  (not  badinage).  They 
ate  silently,  making  a  dull  business  of  it.  Coffee? 
What  kinda  pie  do  you  want?  No  fooling  here. 
"Hello,  Jessie." 

As  she  mopped  the  slab  in  front  of  him  you  noticed 
a  slight  softening  of  her  features,  intent  so  grimly 
on  her  task.  "What's  yours?" 

"Bacon-and-egg  sandwich.  Glass  of  milk.  Piece 
of  pie.  Blueberry." 

Ordinarily  she  would  not  have  bothered.  But  with 
him :  "The  blueberry  ain't  so  good  to-day,  I  noticed. 
Try  the  peach?" 

"All  right."  He  looked  at  her.  She  smiled. 
Incredibly,  the  dishes  ordered  seemed  to  leap  out 
at  her  from  nowhere.  She  crashed  them  down  on 
the  glazed  white  surface  in  front  of  him.  The  bacon- 
and-egg  sandwich  was  served  open-faced,  an 
elaborate  confection.  Two  slices  of  white  bread, 
side  by  side.  On  one  reposed  a  fried  egg,  hard, 
golden,  delectable,  indigestible.  On  the  other  three 
crisp  curls  of  bacon.  The  ordinary  order  held  two 
curls  only.  A  dish  so  rich  in  calories  as  to  make 
it  food  sufficient  for  a  day.  Jessie  knew  nothing  of 
calories,  nor  did  Nick.  She  placed  a  double  order 
of  butter  before  him — two  yellow  pats,  moisture- 
beaded.  As  she  scooped  up  his  milk  from  the  can 
you  saw  that  the  glass  was  but  three  quarters  filled. 
From  a  deep  crock  she  ladled  a  smaller  scoop  and 


14  GIGOLO 

filled  the  glass  to  the  top.  The  deep  crock  held 
cream.  Nick  glanced  up  at  her  again.  Again 
Jessie  smiled.  A  plain  damsel,  Jessie,  and  capable. 
She  went  on  about  her  business.  What's  yours? 
Coffee  with?  White  or  rye?  No  nonsense  about, 
her.  And  yet:  "Pie  all  right?" 

"Yeh.     It's  good." 

She  actually  blushed. 

He  finished,  swung  himself  off  the  stool,  nodded 
to.  Jessie.  She  stacked  his  dishes  with  one  lean, 
capable  hand,  mopped  the  slab  with  the  other,  but 
as  she  made  for  the  kitchen  she  flung  a  glance  at 
him  over  her  shoulder. 

"Day  off?" 

"Yeh." 

"Some  folks  has  all  the  luck." 

He  grinned.  His  teeth  were  strong  and  white 
and  even.  He  walked  toward  the  door  with  his  light 
quick  step,  paused  for  a  toothpick  as  he  paid  his 
check,  was  out  again  into  the  July  sunlight.  Her 
face  became  dull  again. 

Well,  not  one  o'clock.  Guessed  he'd  shoot  a  little 
pool.  He  dropped  into  Moriarty's  cigar  store.  It 
was  called  a  cigar  store  because  it  dealt  in  maga 
zines,  newspapers,  soft  drinks,  golf  balls,  cigarettes, 
pool,  billiards,  chocolates,  chewing  gum,  and  cigars. 
In  the  rear  of  the  store  were  four  green-topped 
tables,  three  for  pool  and  one  for  billiards.  He 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN          15 

hung  about  aimlessly,  watching  the  game  at  the  one 
occupied  table.  The  players  were  slim  young  men 
like  himself,  their  clothes  replicas  of  his  own,  their 
faces  lean  and  somewhat  hard.  Two  of  them 
dropped  out.  Nick  took  a  cue  from  the  rack,  shed 
his  tight  coat.  They  played  under  a  glaring  electric 
light  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  yet  they  seemed  cool, 
aloof,  immune  from  bodily  discomfort.  It  was  a 
strangely  silent  game  and  as  mirthless  as  that  of  the 
elfin  bowlers  in  Rip  Van  Winkle.  The  slim-waisted 
shirted  figures  bent  plastically  over  the  table  in  the 
graceful  postures  of  the  game.  You  heard  only 
the  click  of  the  balls,  an  occasional  low-voiced  ex 
clamation.  A  solemn  crew,  and  unemotional. 

Now  and  then:  "What's  all  the  shootin'  fur?" 

"In  she  goes." 

Nick,  winner,  tired  of  it  in  less  than  an  hour. 
He  bought  a  bottle  of  some  acidulous  drink  just  oif 
the  ice  and  refreshed  himself  with  it,  drinking  from 
the  bottle's  mouth.  He  was  vaguely  restless,  dis 
satisfied.  Out  again  into  the  glare  of  two  o'clock 
Fifty-third  Street.  He  strolled  up  a  block  toward 
Lake  Park  Avenue.  It  was  hot.  He  wished  the 
bus  wasn't  sick.  Might  go  in  swimming,  though. 
He  considered  this  idly.  Hurried  steps  behind  him. 
A  familiar  perfume  wafted  to  his  senses.  A  voice 
nasal  yet  cooing.  Miss  Bauers.  Miss  Bauers  on 
pleasure  bent,  palpably,  being  attired  in  the  briefest 


16  GIGOLO 

of  silks,  white-strapped  slippers,  white  silk  stockings, 
scarlet  hat.  The  Green  Front  Grocery  and  Market 
closed  for  a  half  day  each  Thursday  afternoon  dur 
ing  July  and  August.  Nicky  had  not  availed  him 
self  of  the  knowledge. 

"Well,  if  it  ain't  Nicky!  I  just  seen  you  come 
out  of  Moriarty's  as  I  was  passing."  (She  had 
seen  him  go  in  an  hour  before  and  had  waited  a 
patient  hour  in  the  drug  store  across  the  street.) 
"What  you  doing  around  loose  this  hour  the  day, 
anyway  ?" 

"I'm  off  'safternoon." 

"Are  yuh?  So'm  I."  Nicky  said  nothing.  Miss 
Bauers  shifted  from  one  plump  silken  leg  to  the 
other.  "What  you  doing?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much." 

"So'm  I.  Let's  do  it  together."  Miss  Bauers 
employed  the  direct  method. 

"Well,"  said  Nick,  vaguely.  He  didn't  object 
particularly.  And  yet  he  was  conscious  of  some 
formless  programme  forming  mistily  in  his  mind — a 
programme  that  did  not  include  the  berouged,  be- 
powdered,  plump,  and  silken  Miss  Bauers. 

"I  phoned  you  this  morning,  Nicky.     Twice." 

"Yeh?" 

"They  said  you  wasn't  in." 

"Yeh?" 

A  hard  young  woman,  Miss  Bauers,  yet  simple: 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN          17 

powerfully  drawn  toward  this  magnetic  and  careless 
boy;  powerless  to  forge  chains  strong  enough  to 
hold  him.  "Well,  how  about  Riverview?  I  ain't 
been  this  summer." 

"Oh,  that's  so  darn  far.  Take  all  day  getting 
there,  pretty  near." 

"Not  driving,  it  wouldn't." 

"I  ain't  got  the  bus.     Busted." 

His  apathy  was  getting  on  her  nerves.  "How 
about  a  movie,  then?"  Her  feet  hurt.  It  was  hot. 

His  glance  went  up  the  street  toward  the  Harper, 
down  the  street  toward  the  Hyde  Park.  The  sign 
above  the  Harper  offered  Mother  o'  Mine.  The 
lettering  above  the  Hyde  Park  announced  Love's 
Sacrifice. 

"Gawd,  no,"  he  made  decisive  answer. 

Miss  Bauers's  frazzled  nerves  snapped.  "You 
make  me  sick !  Standing  there.  Nothing  don't  suit 
you.  Say,  I  ain't  so  crazy  to  go  round  with  you. 
Cheap  guy!  Prob'ly  you'd  like  to  go  over  to 
Wooded  Island  or  something,  in  Jackson  Park,  and 
set  on  the  grass  and  feed  the  squirrels.  That'd  be 
a  treat  for  me,  that  would."  She  laughed  a  high, 
scornful  tear-near  laugh. 

"Why — say "  Nick  stared  at  her,  and  yet 

she  felt  he  did  not  see  her.  A  sudden  peace  came 
into  his  face — the  peace  of  a  longing  fulfilled.  He 
turned  his  head.  A  Lake  Park  Avenue  street  car 


18  GIGOLO 

was  roaring  its  way  toward  them.  He  took  a  step 
toward  the  roadway.  "I  got  to  be  going." 

Fear  flashed  its  flame  into  Miss  Bauers's  pale 
blue  eyes.  "Going!  How  do  you  mean,  going? 
Going  where?" 

"I  got  to  be  going."  The  car  had  stopped  op 
posite  them.  His  young  face  was  stern,  implacable. 
Miss  Bauers  knew  she  was  beaten,  but  she  clung  to 
hope  tenaciously,  piteously.  "I  got  to  see  a  party, 
see?" 

"You  never  said  anything  about  it  in  the  first 
place.  Pity  you  wouldn't  say  so  in  the  first  place. 
Who  you  got  to  see,  anyway?"  She  knew  it  was 
useless  to  ask.  She  knew  she  was  beating  her  fists 
against  a  stone  wall,  but  she  must  needs  ask  not 
withstanding:  "Who  you  got  to  see?" 

"I  got  to  see  a  party.  I  forgot."  He  made 
the  car  step  in  two  long  strides;  had  swung  himself 
up.  "So  long!"  The  car  door  slammed  after  him. 
Miss  Bauers,  in  her  unavailing  silks,  stood  discon 
solate  on  the  hot  street  corner. 

He  swayed  on  the  car  platform  until  Sixty-third 
Street  was  reached.  There  he  alighted  and  stood 
a  moment  at  the  curb  surveying  idly  the  populous 
corner.  He  purchased  a  paper  bag  of  hot  peanuts 
from  a  vender's  glittering  scarlet  and  nickel  stand, 
and  crossed  the  street  into  the  pathway  that  led 
to  Jackson  Park,  munching  as  he  went.  In  an  open 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN          19 

space  reserved  for  games  some  boys  were  playing 
baseball  with  much  hoarse  hooting  and  frenzied 
action.  He  drew  near  to  watch.  The  ball,  mis 
directed,  sailed  suddenly  toward  him.  He  ran  back 
ward  at  its  swift  approach,  leaped  high,  caught  it, 
and  with  a  long  curving  swing,  so  easy  as  to  appear 
almost  effortless,  sent  it  hurtling  back.  The  lad  on 
the  pitcher's  mound  made  as  if  to  catch  it,  changed 
his  mind,  dodged,  started  after  it. 

The  boy  at  bat  called  to  Nick :  "Heh,  you !  Wanna 
come  on  and  pitch?" 

Nick  shook  his  head  and  went  on. 

He  wandered  leisurely  along  the  gravel  path  that 
led  to  the  park  golf  shelter.  The  wide  porch  was 
crowded  with  golfers  and  idlers.  A  foursome  was 
teed  up  at  the  first  tee.  Nick  leaned  against  a 
porch  pillar  waiting  for  them  to  drive.  That  old 
boy  had  pretty  good  practise  swing.  .  .  .  Stiff, 
though.  .  .  .  Lookit  that  dame.  Je's!  I  bet 
she  takes  fifteen  shots  before  she  ever  gets  on  to  the 
green.  .  .  .  There,  that  kid  had  pretty  good 
drive.  Must  of  been  hundred  and  fifty,  anyway. 
Pretty  good  for  a  kid. 

Nick,  in  the  course  of  his  kaleidoscopic  career, 
had  been  a  caddie  at  thirteen  in  torn  shirt  and  flap 
ping  knickers.  He  had  played  the  smooth,  expert, 
scornful  game  of  the  caddie  with  a  natural  swing 
from  the  lithe  waist  and  a  follow-through  that  was 


20  GIGOLO 

the  envy  of  the  muscle-bound  men  who  watched  him. 
He  hadn't  played  in  years.  The  game  no  longer 
interested  him.  He  entered  the  shelter  lunchroom. 
The  counters  were  lined  with  lean,  brown,  hungry 
men  and  lean,  brown,  hungry  women.  They  were  eat 
ing  incredible  dishes  considering  that  the  hour  was 
3  P.  M.  and  the  day  a  hot  one.  Corned-beef  hash 
with  a  poached  egg  on  top ;  wieners  and  potato 
salad ;  meat  pies ;  hot  roast  beef  sandwiches ;  steam 
ing  cups  of  coffee  in  thick  white  ware;  watermelon. 
Nick  slid  a  leg  over  a  stool  as  he  had  done  earlier  in 
the  afternoon.  Here,  too,  the  Hebes  were  of  stern 
stuff,  as  they  needs  must  be  to  serve  these  ravenous 
hordes  of  club  swingers  who  swarmed  upon  them 
from  dawn  to  dusk.  Their  task  it  was  to  wait  upon 
the  golfing  male,  which  is  man  at  his  simplest — re 
duced  to  the  least  common  denominator  and  shorn 
of  all  attraction  for  the  female  eye  and  heart.  They 
represented  merely  hungry  mouths,  weary  muscles, 
reaching  fists.  The  waitresses  served  them  as  a 
capable  attendant  serves  another  woman's  child — 
efficiently  and  without  emotion. 

"Blueberry  pie  a  la  mode,"  said  Nick — "with 
strawberry  ice  cream." 

Inured  as  she  was  to  the  horrors  of  gastronomic 
miscegenation,  the  waitress — an  old  girl — recoiled 
at  this. 

"Say,  I  don't  think  you'd  like  that.     They  don't 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN          21 

mix  so  very  good.  Why  don't  you  try  the  peach 
pie  instead  with  the  strawberry  ice  cream — if  you 
want  strawberry?"  He  looked  so  young  and  cool 
and  fresh. 

"Blueberry,"  repeated  Nick  sternly,  and  looked 
her  in  the  eye.  The  old  waitress  laughed  a  little 
and  was  surprised  to  find  herself  laughing.  "  'S 
for  you  to  say."  She  brought  him  the  monstrous 
mixture,  and  he  devoured  it  to  the  last  chromatic 
crumb. 

"Nothing  the  matter  with  that,"  he  remarked  as 
she  passed,  dish-laden. 

She  laughed  again  tolerantly,  almost  tenderly. 
"Good  thing  you're  young."  Her  busy  glance 
lingered  a  brief  moment  on  his  face.  He  sauntered 
out. 

Now  he  took  the  path  to  the  right  of  the  shelter, 
crossed  the  road,  struck  the  path  again,  came  to  a 
rustic  bridge  that  humped  high  in  the  middle,  span 
ning  a  cool  green  stream,  willow-bordered.  The  cool 
green  stream  was  an  emerald  chain  that  threaded 
its  way  in  a  complete  circlet  about  the  sylvan  spot 
known  as  Wooded  Island,  relic  of  World's  Fair 
days. 

The  little  island  lay,  like  a  thing  under  enchant 
ment,  silent,  fragrant,  golden,  green,  exquisite. 
Squirrels  and  blackbirds,  rabbits  and  pigeons 
mingled  in  ^Esopian  accord.  The  air  was  warm  and 


22  GIGOLO 


still,  held  by  the  encircling  trees  and  shrubbery. 
There  was  not  a  soul  to  be  seen.  At  the  far  north 
end  the  two  Japanese  model  houses,  survivors  of  the 
exposition,  gleamed  white  among  the  trees. 

Nick  stood  a  moment.  His  eyelids  closed,  languor 
ously.  He  stretched  his  arms  out  and  up  delicious- 
ly,  bringing  his  stomach  in  and  his  chest  out. 
He  took  off  his  cap  and  stuffed  it  into  his  pocket. 
He  strolled  across  the  thick  cool  nap  of  the  grass, 
deserting  the  pebble  path.  At  the  west  edge  of  the 
island  a  sign  said:  "No  One  Allowed  in  the  Shrub 
bery."  Ignoring  it,  Nick  parted  the  branches, 
stopped  and  crept,  reached  the  bank  that  sloped 
down  to  the  cool  green  stream,  took  off  his  coat, 
and  lay  relaxed  upon  the  ground.  Above  him  the 
tree  branches  made  a  pattern  against  the  sky. 
Little  ripples  lipped  the  shore.  Scampering  velvet- 
footed  things,  feathered  things,  winged  things  made 
pleasant  stir  among  the  leaves.  Nick  slept. 

He  awoke  in  half  an  hour  refreshed.  He  lay  there, 
thinking  of  nothing — a  charming  gift.  He  found 
a  stray  peanut  in  his  pocket  and  fed  it  to  a  friendly 
squirrel.  His  hand  encountered  the  cool  metal  of 
his  harmonica.  He  drew  out  the  instrument,  placed 
his  coat,  folded,  under  his  head,  crossed  his  knees, 
one  leg  swinging  idly,  and  began  to  play  rapturously  t 
He  was  perfectly  happy.  He  played  Gimme  Love, 
whose  jazz  measures  are  stolen  from  Mendelssohn's 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN          23 

Spring  Song.  He  did  not  know  this.  The  leaves 
rustled.  He  did  not  turn  his  head. 

"Hello,  Pan!"  said  a  voice.  A  girl  came  down 
the  slope  and  seated  herself  beside  him.  She  was 
not  smiling. 

Nick  removed  the  harmonica  from  his  lips  and 
wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand.  "Hello 
who?" 

"Hello,  Pan." 

"Wrong  number,  lad}7,"  Nick  said,  and  again 
applied  his  lips  to  the  mouth  organ.  The  girl 
laughed  then,  throwing  back  her  head.  Her  throat 
was  long  and  slim  and  brown.  She  clasped  her 
knees  with  her  arms  and  looked  at  Nick  amusedly. 
Nick  thought  she  was  a  kind  of  homely  little  thing. 

"Pan,"  she  explained,  "was  a  pagan  deity.  He 
played  pipes  in  the  woods." 

"  'S  all  right  with  me,"  Nick  ventured,  bewildered 
but  amiable.  He  wished  she'd  go  away.  But  she 
didn't.  She  began  to  take  off  her  shoes  and  stock 
ings.  She  went  down  to  the  water's  edge,  then,  and 
paddled  hor  feet.  Nick  sat  up,  outraged.  "Say, 
you  can't  do  that." 

She  glanced  back  at  him  over  her  shoulder.  "Oh, 
yes,  I  can.  It's  so  hot."  She  wriggled  her  toes 
ecstatically. 

The  leaves  rustled  again,  briskly,  unmistakably 
this  time.  A  heavy  tread.  A  rough  voice.  "Say, 


24  GIGOLO 

looka  here !     Get  out  of  there,  you !     What  the " 

A  policeman,  red-faced,  wroth.    "You  can't  do  that ! 
Get  outa  here !" 

It  was  like  a  movie,  Nick  thought. 
The  girl  turned  her  head.     "Oh,  now,  Mr.  El- 
wood,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  miss,"  said  the  policeman.  You 
would  not  have  believed  it  could  be  the  same  police 
man.  He  even  giggled.  "Thought  you  was  away." 
"I  was.  In  fact,  I  am,  really.  I  just  got  sick  of 
it  and  ran  away  for  a  day.  Drove.  Alone.  The 
family'll  be  wild." 

"All  the  way?"  said  the  policeman,  incredulously. 
"Say,  I  thought  that  looked  like  your  car  standing 
out  there  by  the  road;  but  I  says  no,  she  ain't  in 
town."  He  looked  sharply  at  Nick,  whose  face  had 
an  Indian  composure,  though  his  feelings  were 
mixed.  "Who's  this?" 

"He's  a  friend  of  mine.  His  name's  Pan."  She 
was  drying  her  feet  with  an  inadequate  rose-coloured 
handkerchief.  She  crept  crabwise  up  the  bank,  and 
put  on  her  stockings  and  slippers. 

"Why'n't  you  come  out  and  set  on  a  bench?"  sug 
gested  the  policeman,  worriedly. 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "In  Arcadia  we  don't 
sit  on  benches.  I  should  think  you'd  know  that. 
Go  on  away,  there's  a  dear.  I  want  to  talk  to  this 
—to  Pan." 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN          25 

He  persisted.  "What'd  your  pa  say,  I'd  like  to 
know!"  The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders.  Nick 
made  as  though  to  rise.  He  was  worried.  A  nut, 
that's  what.  She  pressed  him  down  again  with  a 
hard  brown  hand. 

"Now  it's  all  right.  He's  going.  Old  Fuss!'* 
The  policeman  stood  a  brief  moment  longer.  Then 
the  foliage  rustled  again.  He  was  gone.  The  girl 
sighed,  happily.  "Play  that  thing  some  more,  will 
you?  You're  a  wiz  at  it,  aren't  you?" 

"I'm  pretty  good,"  said  Nick,  modestly.  Then 
the  outrageousness  of  her  conduct  struck  him  afresh. 
"Say,  who're  you,  anyway?" 

"My  name's  Berry — short  for  Bernice.  .  .  . 
What's  yours,  Pan?" 

"Nick— that  is— Nick." 

"Ugh,  terrible!  I'll  stick  to  Pan.  What  d'you 
do  when  you're  not  Panning?"  Then,  ft  the  be 
wilderment  in  his  face:  "What's  your  job?" 

"I  work  in  the  Ideal  Garage.  Say,  you're  pretty 
nosey,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes,  pretty.  .  .  .  That  accounts  for  your 
nails,  h'm?"  She  looked  at  her  own  brown  paws. 
"  'Bout  as  bad  as  mine.  I  drove  one  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  to-day." 

"Ya-as,  you  did !" 

"I  did !  Started  at  six.  And  I'll  probably  drive 
back  to-night." 


26  GIGOLO 

"You're  crazy!" 

"I  know  it,"  she  agreed,  "and  it's  wonderful. 
,  .  .  Can  you  play  the  Tommy  Toddle?" 

"Yeh.  It's  kind  of  hard,  though,  where  the  runs 
are.  I  don't  get  the  runs  so  very  good."  He 
played  it.  She  kept  time  with  head  and  feet.  When 
he  had  finished  and  wiped  his  lips : 

"Elegant!"  She  took  the  harmonica  from  him, 
wiped  it  brazenly  on  the  much-abused,  rose-coloured 
handkerchief  and  began  to  play,  her  cheeks  puffed 
out,  her  eyes  round  with  effort.  She  played  the 
Tommy  Toddle,  and  her  runs  were  perfect.  Nick's 
chagrin  was  swallowed  by  his  admiration  and  envy. 

"Say,  kid,  you  got  more  wind  than  a  factory 
whistle.  Who  learned  you  to  play?" 

She  struck  her  chest  with  a  hard  brown  fist. 
"Tennis.  .  .  .  Tim  taught  me." 

"Who's  Tim?" 

"The — a  chauffeur." 

Nick  leaned  closer.  "Say,  do  you  ever  go  to  the 
dances  at  Englewood  Masonic  Hall?" 

"I  never  have." 

"  'Jah  like  to  go  some  time?" 

"I'd  love  it."  She  grinned  up  at  him,  her  teeth 
flashing  white  in  her  brown  face. 

"It's  swell  here,"  he  said,  dreamily.  "Like  the 
woods?" 

"Yes." 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN          27 

"Winter,  when  it's  cold  and  dirty,  I  think  about 
how  it's  here  summers.  It's  like  you  could  take  it 
out  of  your  head  and  look  at  it  whenever  you  wanted 
to." 

"Endymion." 

"Huh?" 

"A  man  said  practically  the  same  thing  the  other 
day.  Name  of  Keats." 

"Yeh?" 

"He  said:  4A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever.'  " 

"That's  one  way  putting  it,"  he  agreed,  gra 
ciously. 

Unsmilingly  she  reached  over  with  one  slim  fore 
finger,  as  if  compelled,  and  touched  the  blond  hairs 
on  Nick's  wrist.  Just  touched  them.  Nick  re 
mained  motionless.  The  girl  shivered  a  little,  de- 
liciously.  She  glanced  at  him  shyly.  Her  lips  were 
provocative.  Thoughtlessly,  blindly,  Nick  suddenly 
flung  an  arm  about  *her,  kissed  her.  He  kissed  her 
as  he  had  never  kissed  Miss  Bauers — as  he  had  never 
kissed  Miss  Ahearn,  Miss  Olson,  or  just  Gertie.  The 
girl  did  not  scream,  or  push  him  away,  or  slap  him, 
or  protest,  or  giggle  as  would  have  the  above- 
mentioned  37oung  ladies.  She  sat  breathing  rather 
fast,  a  tinge  of  scarlet  showing  beneath  the  tan. 

"Well,  Pan,"  she  said,  low-voiced,  "you're  running 
true  to  form,  anyway."  She  eyed  him  appraisingly. 
"Your  appeal  is  in  your  virility,  I  suppose.  Yes." 


28  GIGOLO 

"My  what?" 

She  rose.     "I've  got  to  go." 

Panic  seized  him.  "Say,  don't  drive  back  to-night, 
huh?  Wherever  it  is  you've  got  to  go.  You  ain't 
driving  back  to-night?" 

She  made  no  answer ;  parted  the  bushes,  was  out 
on  the  gravel  path  in  the  sunlight,  a  slim,  short- 
skirted,  almost  childish  figure.  He  followed.  They 
crossed  the  bridge,  left  the  island,  reached  the  road 
way  almost  in  silence.  At  the  side  of  the  road  was 
a  roadster.  Its  hood  was  the  kind  that  conceals 
power.  Its  lamps  were  two  giant  eyes  rimmed  in 
precious  metal.  Its  line  spelled  strength.  Its  body 
was  foreign.  Nick's  engine-wise  eyes  saw  these 
things  at  a  glance. 

"That  your  car?" 

"Yes." 

"Gosh!" 

She  unlocked  it,  threw  in  the  clutch,  shifted, 
moved.  "Say!"  was  wrung  from  Nick  helplessly. 
She  waved  at  him.  "Good-bye,  Pan."  He  stared, 
stricken.  She  was  off  swiftly,  silently;  flashed 
around  a  corner;  was  hidden  by  the  trees  and 
shrubs. 

He  stood  a  moment.  He  felt  bereaved,  cheated. 
Then  a  little  wave  of  exaltation  shook  him.  He 
wanted  to  talk  to  someone.  "Gosh !"  he  said  again. 
He  glanced  at  his  wrist.  Five-thirty.  He  guessed 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN          29 

he'd  go  home.  He  guessed  he'd  go  home  and  get  one 
of  Ma's  dinners.  One  of  Ma's  dinners  and  talk  to 
Ma.  The  Sixty-third  Street  car.  He  could  make 
it  and  back  in  plenty  time. 

Nick  lived  in  that  section  of  Chicago  known  as 
Englewood,  which  is  not  so  sylvan  as  it  sounds,  but 
appropriate  enough  for  a  faun.  Not  only  that ;  he 
lived  in  S.  Green  Street,  Englewood.  S.  Green 
Street,  near  Seventieth,  is  almost  rural  with  its  gi^at 
elms  and  poplars,  its  frame  cottages,  its  back  gar 
dens.  A  neighbourhood  of  thrifty,  foreign-born 
fathers  and  mothers,  many  children,  tree-lined 
streets  badly  paved.  Nick  turned  in  at  a  two-story 
brown  frame  cottage.  He  went  around  to  the  back. 
Ma  was  in  the  kitchen. 

Nick's  presence  at  the  evening  meal  was  an  un 
certain  thing.  Sometimes  he  did  not  eat  at  home 
for  a  week,  excepting  only  his  hurried  early  break 
fast.  He  rarely  spent  an  evening  at  home,  and 
when  he  did  used  the  opportunity  for  making  up 
lost  sleep.  Pa  never  got  home  from  work  until 
after  six.  Nick  liked  his  dinner  early  and  hot.  On 
his  rare  visits  his  mother  welcomed  him  like  one  of 
the  Gracchi.  Mother  and  son  understood  each  other 
wordlessly,  having  much  in  common.  You  would 
not  have  thought  it  of  her  (forty-six  bust,  forty 
waist,  measureless  hips),  but  Ma  was  a  nymph  at 
heart.  Hence  Nick. 


30  GIGOLO 

"Hello,  Ma!"  She  was  slamming  expertly  about 
the  kitchen. 

"Hello,  yourself,"  said  Ma.  Ma  had  a  line  of 
slang  gleaned  from  her  numerous  brood.  It  fell 
strangely  from  her  lips.  Ma  had  never  quite  lost 
a  tinge  of  foreign  accent,  though  she  had  come  to 
America  when  a  girl.  A  hearty,  zestful  woman, 
savouring  life  with  gusto,  undiminished  by  child- 
beaming  and  hard  work.  "Eating  home,  Dewey?" 
She  alone  used  his  given  name. 

"Yeh,  but  I  gotta  be  back  by  seven-thirty.  Got 
anything  ready?" 

"Dinner  ain't,  but  I'll  get  you  something.  Plenty. 
Platter  ham  and  eggs  and  a  quick  fry.  Cherry  cob 
bler's  done.  I'll  fix  you  some."  (Cherry  cobbler  is 
shortcake  with  a  soul.) 

He  ate  enormously  at  the  kitchen  table,  she  hover 
ing  over  him. 

"What's  the  news,  Dewey?" 

"Ain't  none."  He  ate  in  silence.  Then:  "How 
old  was  you  when  you  married  Pa  ?" 

"Me?  Say,  I  wasn't  no  more'n  a  kid.  I  gotta 
laugh  when  I  think  of  it." 

"What  was  Pa  earning?" 

She  laughed  a  great  hearty  laugh,  dipping  a  piece 
of  bread  sociably  in  the  ham  fat  on  the  platter  as 
she  stood  by  the  table,  just  to  bear  him  company. 

"Say,   earn!     If   he'd   of   earned   what   you   was 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN          31 

earning  now,  we'd  of  thought  we  was  millionaires. 
Time  Etty  was  born  he  was  pulling  down  thirteen  a 
week,  and  we  saved  on  it."  She  looked  at  him  sud 
denly,  sharply.  "Why?" 

"Oh,  I  was  just  wondering.'" 

"Look  what  good  money  he's  getting  now!  If 
I  was  you,  I  wouldn't  stick  around  no  old  garage  for 
what  they  give  you.  You  could  get  a  good  job  in 
the  works  with  Pa;  first  thing  you  know  you'd  be 
pulling  down  big  money.  You're  smart  like  that 
with  engines.  .  .  .  Takes  a  lot  of  money  now 
adays  for  feller* to  get  married." 

"You  tell  'em,"  agreed  Nick.  He  looked  up  at 
her,  having  finished  eating.  His  glance  was  almost 
tender.  "How'd  you  come  to  marry  Pa,  anyway? 
You  and  him's  so  different." 

The  nymph  in  Ma  leaped  to  the  surface  and  stayed 
there  a  moment,  sparkling,  laughing,  dimpling. 
"Oh,  I  dunno.  I  kept  running  away  and  he  kept 
running  after.  Like  that." 

He  looked  up  again  quickly  at  that.  "Yeh. 
That's  it.  Fella  don't  like  to  have  no  girl  chasing 
him  all  the  time.  Say,  he  likes  to  do  the  chasing 
himself.  Ain't  that  the  truth?" 

"You  tell  'em !"  agreed  Ma.  A  great  jovial  laugh 
shook  her.  Heavy-footed  now,  but  light  of  heart. 

Suddenly :  "I'm  thinking  of  going  to  night  school. 
Learn  something.  I  don't  know  nothing." 


32  GIGOLO 

"You  do,  too,  Dewey!" 

" 'Aw,  wha'd  I  know?  I  never  had  enough  school 
ing.  Wished  I  had." 

"Who's  doings  was  it?  You  wouldn't  stay. 
Wouldn't  go  no  more  than  sixth  reader  and  quit. 
Nothing  wouldn't  get  you  to  go." 

He  agreed  gloomily.  "I  know  it.  I  don't  know 
what  nothing  is.  Uh — Arcadia — or — now — vitality 
or  nothing." 

"Oh,  that  comes  easy,"  she  encouraged  him,  "when 
you  begin  once." 

He  reached  for  her  hand  gratefully.  "You're  a 
swell  cook,  Ma."  He  had  a  sudden  burst  of  gener 
osity,  of  tenderness.  "Soon's  the  bus  is  fixed  I'll 
take  you  joy-riding  over  to  the  lake." 

Ma  always  wore  a  boudoir  cap  of  draggled  lace 
and  ribbon  for  motoring.  Nick  almost  never  offered 
her  a  ride.  She  did  not  expect  him  to. 

She  pushed  him  playfully.  "Go  on!  You  got 
plenty  young  girls  to  take  riding,  not  your 
ma." 

"Oh,  girls !"  he  said,  scornfully.  Then  in  another 
tone:  "Girls." 

He  was  off.  It  was  almost  seven.  Pa  was  late. 
He  caught  a  car  back  to  Fifty-third  Street.  Elmer 
was  lounging  in  the  cool  doorway  of  the  garage. 
Nick,  in  sheer  exuberance  of  spirits,  squared  off, 
doubled  his  fists,  and  danced  about  Elmer  in  a 


THE  AFTERNOON  OF  A  FAUN          33 

semicircle,  working  liis  arms  as  a  prizefighter  does, 
warily.  He  jabbed  at  Elmer's  jaw  playfully. 

"What  you  been  doing,"  inquired  that  long- 
suffering  gentleman,  "makes  you  feel  so  good? 
Where  you  been?" 

"Oh,  nowheres.     Bumming  round.     Park." 

He  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  stairway.  Elmer 
lounged  after  him.  "Oh,  say,  dame's  been  calling 
you  for  the  last  hour  and  a  half.  Like  to  busted  the 
phone.  Makes  me  sick." 

"Aw,  Bauer s." 

"No,  that  wasn't  the  name.  Name's  Mary  or 
Berry,  or  something  like  that.  A  dozen  times,  I 
betcha.  Says  you  was  to  call  her  as  soon  as  you 
come  in.  Drexel  47 — wait  a  min't' — yeh — that's 
right— Drexel  473 " 

"Swell  chanst,"  said  Nick.  Suddenly  his  buoy 
ancy  was  gone.  His  shoulders  drooped.  His  ciga 
rette  dangled  limp.  Disappointment  curved  his 
lips,  burdened  his  eyes.  "Swell  chanst!" 


OLD  MAN  MINICK 

HIS  wife  had  always  spoiled  him  outrageously. 
No  doubt  of  that.  Take,  for  example,  the 
matter  of  the  pillows  merely.  Old  man 
Minick  slept  high.  That  is,  he  thought  he  slept 
high.  He  liked  two  plump  pillows  on  his  side  of 
the  great,  wide,  old-fashioned  cherry  bed.  He  would 
sink  into  them  with  a  vast  grunting  and  sighing  and 
puffing  expressive  of  nerves  and  muscles  relaxed  and 
gratified.  But  in  the  morning  there  was  always 
one  pillow  on  the  floor.  He  had  thrown  it  there. 
Always,  in  the  morning,  there  it  lay,  its  plump 
white  cheek  turned  reproachfully  up  at  him  from 
the  side  of  the  bed.  Ma  Minick  knew  this,  naturally, 
after  forty  years  of  the  cherry  bed.  But  she  never 
begrudged  him  that  extra  pillow.  Each  morning, 
when  she  arose,  she  picked  it  up  on  her  way  to  shut 
the  window.  Each  morning  the  bed  was  made  up 
with  two  pillows  on  his  side  of  it,  as  usual. 

Then  there  was  the  window.  Ma  Minick  liked 
it  open  wide.  Old  man  Minick,  who  rather  prided 
himself  on  his  modernism  (he  called  it  being  up  to 
date)  was  distrustful  of  the  night  air.  In  the  folds 

34 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  35 

of  its  sable  mantle  lurked  a  swarm  of  dread  things 
— colds,  clammy  miasmas,  fevers. 

"Night  air's  just  like  any  other  air,"  Ma  Minick 
would  say,  with  some  asperity.  Ma  Minick  was  no 
worm;  and  as  modern  as  he.  So  when  they  went 
to  bed  the  window  would  be  open  wide.  They  would 
lie  there,  the  two  old  ones,  talking  comfortably  about 
commonplace  things.  The  kind  of  talk  that  goes 
on  between  a  man  and  a  woman  who  have  lived  to 
gether  in  wholesome  peace  (spiced  with  occasional 
wholesome  bickerings)  for  more  than  forty  years. 

"Remind  me  to  see  Gerson  to-morrow  about  that 
lock  on  the  basement  door.  The  paper's  full  of 
burglars." 

"If  I  think  of  it."     She  never  failed  to. 

"George  and  Nettie  haven't  been  over  in  a  week 
now." 

"Oh,  well,  young  folks  .  .  .  Did  you  stop  in 
and  pay  that  Koritz  the  fifty  cents  for  pressing  your 
suit?" 

"By  golly,  I  forgot  again!  First  thing  in  the 
morning." 

A  sniff.   "Just  smell  the  Yards."   It  was  Chicago. 

"Wind  must  be  from  the  west." 

Sleep  came  with  reluctant  feet,  but  they  wooed 
her  patiently.  And  presently  she  settled  down 
between  them  and  they  slept  lightly.  Usually,  some 
time  during  the  night,  he  awoke,  slid  cautiously  and 


36  GIGOLO 

with  infinite  stealth  from  beneath  the  covers  and 
closed  the  wide-flung  window  to  within  a  bare  two 
inches  of  the  sill.  Almost  invariably  she  heard  him ; 
but  she  was  a  wise  old  woman ;  a  philosopher  of  parts. 
She  knew  better  than  to  allow  a  window  to  shatter 
the  peace  of  their  marital  felicity.  As  she  lay 
there,  smiling  a  little  grimly  in  the  dark  and  giving 
no  sign  of  being  awake,  she  thought,  "Oh,  well,  I 
guess  a  closed  window  won't  kill  me  either." 

Still,  sometimes,  just  to  punish  him  a  little,  and 
to  prove  that  she  was  nobody's  fool,  she  would  wait 
until  he  had  dropped  off  to  sleep  again  and  then 
she,  too,  would  achieve  a  stealthy  trip  to  the 
window  and  would  raise  it  slowly,  carefully,  inch 
by  inch. 

"How  did  that  window  come  to  be  open?"  he  would 
say  in  the  morning,  being  a  poor  dissembler. 

"Window?  Why,  it's  just  the  way  it  was  when  we 
went  to  bed."  And  she  would  stoop  to  pick  up  the 
pillow  that  lay  on  the  floor. 

There  was  little  or  no  talk  of  death  between  this 
comfortable,  active,  sound-appearing  man  of  almost 
seventy  and  this  plump  capable  woman  of  sixty- 
six.  But  as  always,  between  husband  and  wife,  it 
was  understood  wordlessly  (and  without  reason) 
that  old  man  Minick  would  go  first.  Not  that  either 
of  them  had  the  slightest  intention  of  going.  In 
fact,  when  it  happened  they  were  planning  to  spend 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  37 

the  winter  in  California  and  perhaps  live  there  in 
definitely  if  they  liked  it  and  didn't  get  too  lonesome 
for  George  and  Nettie,  and  the  Chicago  smoke,  and 
Chicago  noise,  and  Chicago  smells  and  rush  and 
dirt.  Still,  the  solid  sum  paid  yearly  in  insurance 
premiums  showed  clearly  that  he  meant  to  leave  her 
in  comfort  and  security.  Besides,  the  world  is  full 
of  widows.  Everyone  sees  that.  But  how  many 
widowers?  Few.  Widows  there  are  by  the  thou 
sands;  living  alone;  living  in  hotels;  living  with 
married  daughters  and  sons-in-law  or  married  sons 
and  daughters-in-law.  But  of  widowers  in  a  like 
situation  there  are  bewilderingly  few.  And  why 
this  should  be  no  one  knows. 

So,  then.  The  California  trip  never  materialized. 
And  the  year  that  followed  never  was  quite  clear  in 
old  man  Minick's  dazed  mind.  In  the  first  place,  it 
was  the  year  in  which  stocks  tumbled  and  broke  their 
backs.  Gilt-edged  securities  showed  themselves  to 
be  tinsel.  Old  man  Minick  had  retired  from  active 
business  just  one  year  before,  meaning  to  live  com 
fortably  on  the  fruit  of  a  half-century's  toil.  He 
now  saw  that  fruit  rotting  all  about  him.  There  was 
in  it  hardly  enough  nourishment  to  sustain  them. 
Then  came  the  day  when  Ma  Minick  went  downtown 
to  see  Matthews  about  that  pain  right  here  and 
came  home  looking  shrivelled,  talking  shrilly  about 
nothing,  and  evading  Pa's  eyes.  Followed  months 


38  GIGOLO 

that  were  just  a  jumble  of  agony,  X-rays,  hope, 
despair,  morphia,  nothingness. 

After  it  was  all  over:  "But  I  was  going  first," 
old  man  Minick  said,  dazedly. 

The  old  house  on  Ellis  near  Thirty-ninth  was  sold 
for  what  it  would  bring.  George,  who  knew  Chi 
cago  real-estate  if  any  one  did,  said  they  might  as 
well  get  what  they  could.  Things  would  only  go  lower. 
You'll  see.  And  nobody's  going  to  have  any  money 
for  years.  Besides,  look  at  the  neighbourhood ! 

Old  man  Minick  said  George  was  right.  He  said 
everybody  was  right.  You  would  hardly  have 
recognized  in  this  shrunken  figure  and  wattled  face 
the  spruce  and  dressy  old  man  whom  Ma  Minick 
used  to  spoil  so  delightfully.  "You  know  best, 
George.  You  know  best."  He  who  used  to  stand 
up  to  George  until  Ma  Minick  was  moved  to  say, 
"Now,  Pa,  you  don't  know  everything." 

After  Matthews'  bills,  and  the  hospital,  and  the 
nurses  and  the  medicines  and  the  thousand  and  one 
things  were  paid  there  was  left  exactly  five  hundred 
dollars  a  year. 

"You're  going  to  make  your  home  with  us, 
Father,"  George  and  Nettie  said.  Alma,  too,  said 
this  would  be  the  best.  Alma,  the  married  daughter, 
lived  in  Seattle.  "Though  you  know  Ferd  and  I 
would  be  only  too  glad  to  have  you." 

Seattle !     The  ends  of  the  earth.     Oh,  no.     No !  he 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  39 

protested,  every  fibre  of  his  old  frame  clinging  to  the 
accustomed.  Seattle,  at  seventy!  He  turned  pit 
eous  eyes  on  his  son  George  and  his  daughter-in-law 
Nettie.  "You're  going  to  make  your  home  with 
us,  Father,"  they  reassured  him.  He  clung  to  them 
gratefully.  After  it  was  over  Alma  went  home  to 
her  husband  and  their  children. 

So  now  he  lived  with  George  and  Nettie  in  the  five- 
room  flat  on  South  Park  Avenue,  just  across  from 
Washington  Park.  And  there  was  no  extra  pillow 
on  the  floor. 

Nettie  hadn't  said  he  couldn't  have  the  extra 
pillow.  He  had  told  her  he  used  two  and  she  had 
given  him  two  the  first  week.  But  every  morning 
she  had  found  a  pillow  cast  on  the  floor. 

"I  thought  you  used  two  pillows,  Father." 

"I  do." 

"But  there's  always  one  on  the  floor  when  I  make 
the  bed  in  the  morning.  You  always  throw  one 
on  the  floor.  You  only  sleep  on  one  pillow,  really." 

"I  use  two  pillows." 

But  the  second  week  there  was  one  pillow.  He 
tossed  and  turned  a  good  deal  there  in  his  bedroom 
off  the  kitchen.  But  he  got  used  to  it  in  time.  Not 

used  to  it,  exactly,  but — well 

I  The  bedroom  off  the  kitchen  wasn't  as  menial 
as  it  sounds.  It  was  really  rather  cosy.  The  five- 
room  flat  held  living  room,  front  bedroom,  dining 


40  GIGOLO 

room,  kitchen,  and  maid's  room.  The  room  off  the 
kitchen  was  intended  as  a  maid's  room  but  Nettie 
had  no  maid.  George's  business  had  suffered  with 
the  rest.  George  and  Nettie  had  said,  "I  wish  there 
was  a  front  room  for  you,  Father.  You  could 
have  ours  and  we'd  move  back  here,  only  this  room's 
too  small  for  twin  beds  and  the  dressing  table  and 
the  chiffonier."  They  had  meant  it — or  meant  to 
mean  it. 

"This  is  fine,"  old  man  Minick  had  said.  "This 
is  good  enough  for  anybody."  There  was  a  narrow 
white  enamel  bed  and  a  tiny  dresser  and  a  table. 
Nettie  had  made  gay  cretonne  covers  and  spreads 
and  put  a  little  reading  lamp  on  the  table  and 
arranged  his  things.  Ma  Minick's  picture  on  the 
dresser  with  her  mouth  sort  of  pursed  to  make  it 
look  small.  It  wasn't  a  recent  picture.  Nettie 
and  George  had  had  it  framed  for  him  as  a  surprise. 
They  had  often  urged  her  to  have  a  picture  taken, 
but  she  had  dreaded  it.  Old  man  Minick  didn't  think 
much  of  that  photograph,  though  he  never  said  so. 
He  needed  no  photograph  of  Ma  Minick.  He  had 
-a  dozen  of  them;  a  gallery  of  them;  thousands  of 
them.  Lying  on  his  one  pillow  he  could  take  them 
out  and  look  at  them  one  by  one  as  they  passed  in 
review,  smiling,  serious,  chiding,  praising,  there  in 
the  dark.  He  needed  no  picture  on  his  dresser. 

A  handsome  girl,  Nettie,  and  a  good  girl.     He. 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  41 

thought  of  her  as  a  girl,  though  she  was  well  past 
thirty.  George  and  Nettie  had  married  late.  This 
was  only  the  third  year  of  their  marriage.  Alma, 
the  daughter,  had  married  young,  but  George  had 
stayed  on,  unwed,  in  the  old  house  on  Ellis  until 
he  was  thirty-six  and  all  Ma  Minick's  friends'  daugh 
ters  had  had  a  try  at  him  in  vain.  The  old  people 
had  urged  him  to  marry,  but  it  had  been  wonderful 
to  have  him  around  the  house,  just  the  same.  Some 
body  young  around  the  house.  Not  that  George 
had  stayed  around  very  much.  But  when  he  was 
there  you  knew  he  was  there.  He  whistled  while 
dressing.  He  sang  in  the  bath.  He  roared  down 
the  stairway,  "Ma,  where's  my  clean  shirts?"  The 
telephone  rang  for  him.  Ma  Minick  prepared 
special  dishes  for  him.  The  servant  girl  said,  "Oh, 
now,  Mr.  George,  look  what  you've  done !  Gone  and 
spilled  the  grease  all  over  my  clean  kitchen  floor!" 
and  wiped  it  up  adoringly  while  George  laughed 
and  gobbled  his  bit  of  food  filched  from  pot  or  frying 
pan. 

They  had  been  a  little  surprised  about  Nettie. 
George  was  in  the  bond  business  and  she  worked 
for  the  same  firm.  A  plump,  handsome,  eye-glassed 
woman  with  fine  fresh  colouring,  a  clear  skin  that 
old  man  Minick  called  appetizing,  and  a  great  coil 
of  smooth  dark  hair.  She  wore  plain  tailored  things 
and  understood  the  bond  business  in  a  way  that 


42  GIGOLO 

might  have  led  you  to  think  hers  a  masculine  mind 
if  she  hadn't  been  so  feminine,  too,  in  her  manner. 
Old  man  Minick  had  liked  her  better  than  Ma 
Minick  had. 

Nettie  had  called  him  Pop  and  joked  with  him 
and  almost  flirted  with  him  in  a  daughterly  sort 
of  way.  He  liked  to  squeeze  her  plump  arm  and 
pinch  her  soft  cheek  between  thumb  and  forefinger. 
She  would  laugh  up  at  him  and  pat  his  shoulder 
and  that  shoulder  would  straighten  spryly  and  he 
would  waggle  his  head  doggishly. 

"Look  out  there,  George !"  the  others  in  the  room 
would  say.  "Your  dad'll  cut  you  out.  First  thing 
you  know  you'll  lose  your  girl,  that's  all." 

Nettie  would  smile.  Her  teeth  were  white  and 
strong  and  even.  Old  man  Minick  would  laugh 
and  wink,  immensely  pleased  and  flattered.  "We 
understand  each  other,  don't  we,  Pop?"  Nettie 
would  say. 

During  the  first  years  of  their  married  life  Nettie 
stayed  home.  She  fussed  happily  about  her  little 
flat,  gave  parties,  went  to  parties,  played  bridge. 
She  seemed  to  love  the  ease,  the  relaxation,  the  small 
luxuries.  She  and  George  were  very  much  in  love. 
Before  her  marriage  she  had  lived  in  a  boarding 
house  on  Michigan  Avenue.  At  mention  of  it  now 
she  puckered  up  her  face.  She  did  not  attempt  to 
conceal  her  fondness  for  these  five  rooms  of  hers,  so 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  43 

neat,  so  quiet,  so  bright,  so  cosy.  Over-stuffed 
velvet  in  the  living  room,  with  silk  lamp-shades,  and 
small  tables  holding  books  and  magazines  and  little 
boxes  containing  cigarettes  or  hard  candies.  Very 
modern.  A  gate-legged  table  in  the  dining  room. 
Caramel-coloured  walnut  in  the  bedroom,  rich  and 
dark  and  smooth.  She  loved  it.  An  orderly  woman. 
Everything  in  its  place.  Before  eleven  o'clock  the 
little  apartment  was  shining,  spotless;  cushions 
plumped,  crumbs  brushed,  vegetables  in  cold  water. 
The  telephone.  "Hello!  ...  Oh,  hello,  Bess! 
Oh,  hours  ago  .  .  .  Not  a  thing  .  .  . 
Well,  if  George  is  willing  .  .  .  I'll  call  him  up 
and  ask  him.  We  haven't  seen  a  show  in  two  weeks. 
I'll  call  you  back  within  the  next  half  hour 
No,  I  haven't  done  my  marketing  yet. 
.  .  .  Yes,  and  have  dinner  downtown.  Meet 
at  seven." 

Into  this  orderly  smooth-running  mechanism  was 
catapulted  a  bewildered  old  man.  She  no  longer 
called  him  Pop.  He  never  dreamed  of  squeezing 
the  plump  arm  or  pinching  the  smooth  cheek.  She 
caLed  him  Father.  Sometimes  George's  Father. 
Sometimes,  when  she  was  telephoning,  there  came  to 
him — "George's  father's  living  with  us  now,  you 
know.  I  can't." 

They  were  very  kind  to  him,  Nettie  and  George. 
"Now  just  you  sit  right  down  here,  Father.  What 


44  GIGOLO 

do  you  want  to  go  poking  off  into  your  own  room 
for?" 

He  remembered  that  in  the  last  year  Nettie  had 
said  something  about  going  back  to  work.  There 
wasn't  enough  to  do  around  the  house  to  keep  her 
busy.  She  was  sick  of  afternoon  parties.  Sew  and 
eat,  that's  all,  and  gossip,  or  play  bridge.  Besides, 
look  at  the  money.  Business  was  awful.  The  two 
old  people  had  resented  this  idea  as  much  as  George 
had — more,  in  fact.  They  were  scandalized. 

"Young  folks  nowdays!"  shaking  their  heads. 
"Young  folks  nowdays.  What  are  they  thinking  of ! 
In  my  day  when  you  got  married  you  had  babies." 

George  and  Nettie  had  had  no  babies.  At  first 
Nettie  had  said,  "I'm  so  happy.  I  just  want  a  chance 
to  rest.  I've  been  working  since  I  was  seventeen. 
I  just  want  to  rest,  first."  One  year.  Two  years. 
Three.  And  now  Pa  Minick. 

Ma  Minick,  in  the  old  house  on  Ellis  Avenue,  had 
kept  a  loose  sort  of  larder ;  not  lavish,  but  plentiful. 
They  both  ate  a  great  deal,  as  old  people  are  likely 
to  do.  Old  man  Minick,  especially,  had  liked  to  nib 
ble.  A  handful  of  raisins  from  the  box  on  the  shelf. 
A  couple  of  nuts  from  the  dish  on  the  sideboard.  A 
bit  of  candy  rolled  beneath  the  tongue.  At  dinner 
(sometimes,  toward  the  last,  even  at  noon-time)  a 
plate  of  steaming  soup,  hot,  revivifying,  stimulating. 
Plenty  of  this  and  plenty  of  that.  "What's  the  mat- 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  45 

ter,  Jo?  You're  not  eating."  But  he  was,  amply. 
Ma  Minick  had  liked  to  see  him  eat  too  much.  She 
was  wrong,  of  course. 

But  at  Nettie's  things  were  different.  Hers  was  a 
sufficient  but  stern  menage.  So  many  mouths  to 
feed;  just  so  many  lamb  chops.  Nettie  knew  about 
calories  and  vitamines  and  mysterious  things  like 
that,  and  talked  about  them.  So  many  calories  in 
this.  So  many  calories  in  that.  He  never  was  quite 
clear  in  his  mind  about  these  things  said  to  be 
lurking  in  his  food.  He  had  always  thought  of 
spinach  as  spinach,  chops  as  chops.  But  to  Nettie 
they  were  calories.  They  lunched  together,  these 
two.  George  was,  of  course,  downtown.  For  her 
self  Nettie  would  have  one  of  those  feminine  pick-up 
lunches;  a  dab  of  apple  sauce,  a  cup  of  tea,  and  a 
slice  of  cold  toast  left  from  breakfast.  This  she 
would  eat  while  old  man  Minick  guiltily  supped  up 
his  cup  of  warmed-over  broth,  or  his  coddled  egg. 
She  always  pressed  upon  him  any  bit  of  cold  meat 
that  was  left  from  the  night  before,  or  any  remnants 
of  vegetable  or  spaghetti.  Often  there  was  quite  a 
little  fleet  of  saucers  and  sauce  plates  grouped  about 
his  main  plate.  Into  these  he  dipped  and  swooped 
uncomfortably,  and  yet  with  a  relish.  Sometimes, 
when  he  had  finished,  he  would  look  about,  furtively. 

"What'll  you  have,  Father?  Can  I  get  you 
something  ?" 


46  GIGOLO 

"Nothing,  Nettie,  nothing.  I'm  doing  fine."  She 
had  finished  the  last  of  her  wooden  toast  and  was 
waiting  for  him,  kindly. 

Still,  this  balanced  and  scientific  fare  seemed  to 
agree  with  him.  As  the  winter  went  on  he  seemed 
actually  to  have  regained  most  of  his  former  hardi 
ness  and  vigour.  A  handsome  old  boy  he  was,  ruddy, 
hale,  with  the  zest  of  a  juicy  old  apple,  slightly 
withered  but  still  sappy.  It  should  be  mentioned 
that  he  had  a  dimple  in  his  cheek  which  flashed  un 
expectedly  when  he  smiled.  It  gave  him  a  roguish 
— almost  boyish — effect  most  appealing  to  the  be 
holder.  Especially  the  feminine  beholder.  Much 
of  his  spoiling  at  the  hands  of  Ma  Minick  had  doubt 
less  been  due  to  this  mere  depression  of  the  skin. 

Spring  was  to  bring  a  new  and  welcome  source  of 
enrichment  into  his  life.  But  these  first  six  months 
of  his  residence  with  George  and  Nettie  were  hard. 
No  spoiling  there.  He  missed  being  made  much  of. 
He  got  kindness,  but  he  needed  love.  Then,  too,  he 
was  rather  a  gabby  old  man.  He  liked  to  hold  forth. 
In  the  old  house*  on  Ellis  there  had  been  visiting  back 
and  forth  between  men  and  women  of  his  own  age, 
and  Ma's.  At  these  gatherings  he  had  waxed  ora 
torical  or  argumentative,  and  they  had  heard  him, 
some  in  agreement,  some  in  disagreement,  but  always 
respectfully,  whether  he  prated  of  real  estate  or 
social  depravity ;  prohibition  or  European  exchange. 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  47 

"Let  me  tell  you,  here  and  now,  something's  got 
to  be  done  before  you  can  get  a  country  back  on  a 
sound  financial  basis.  Why,  take  Russia  alone, 
why  .  .  ."  Or:  "Young  people  nowdays!  They 
don't  know  what  respect  means.  I  tell  you  there's 
got  to  be  a  change  and  there  will  be,  and  it's 
the  older  generation  that's  got  to  bring  it  about. 
What  do  they  know  of  hardship!  What  do  they 
know  about  work — real  work.  Most  of  'em's  never 
done  a  real  day's  work  in  their  life.  All  they  think 
of  is  dancing  and  gambling  and  drinking.  Look 
at  the  way  they  dress  !  Look  at  .  .  ." 

Ad  lib. 

"That's  so,"  the  others  would  agree.  "I  was  say 
ing  only  3^esterday  .  .  ." 

Then,  too,  until  a  year  or  two  before,  he  had  taken 
active  part  in  business.  He  had  retired  only  at 
the  urging  of  Ma  and  the  children.  They  said  he 
ought  to  rest  and  play  and  enjoy  himself. 

Now,  as  his  strength  and  good  spirits  gradually 
returned  he  began  to  go  downtown,  mornings.  He 
would  dress,  carefully,  though  a  little  shakily.  He 
had  always  shaved  himself  and  he  kept  this  up.  All 
in  all,  during  the  day,  he  occupied  the  bathroom 
literally  for  hours,  and  this  annoyed  Nettie  to  the 
point  of  frenzy,  though  she  said  nothing.  He  liked 
the  white  cheerfulness  of  the  little  tiled  room.  He 
puddled  about  in  the  water  endlessly.  Snorted  and 


48  GIGOLO 

splashed  and  puffed  and  snuffled  and  blew.  He  was 
one  of  those  audible  washers  who  emerge  dripping 
and  whose  ablutions  are  distributed  impartially  over 
ceiling,  walls,  and  floor. 

Nettie,  at  the  closed  door:  "Father,  are  you  all 
right?" 

Splash!     Prrrf !     "Yes.     Sure.     I'm  all  right." 

"Well,  I  didn't  know.  You've  been  in  there  so 
long." 

He  was  a  neat  old  man,  but  there  was  likely  to  be 
a  spot  or  so  on  his  vest  or  his  coat  lapel,  or  his  tie. 
Ma  used  to  remove  these,  on  or  off  him,  as  the  oc 
casion  demanded,  rubbing  carefully  and  scolding  a 
little,  making  a  chiding  sound  between  tongue  and 
teeth  indicative  of  great  impatience  of  his  careless 
ness.  He  had  rather  enjoyed  these  sounds,  and  this 
rubbing  and  scratching  on  the  cloth  with  the  finger 
nail  and  a  moistened  rag.  They  indicated  that  some 
one  cared.  Cared  about  the  way  he  looked.  Had 
pride  in  him.  Loved  him.  Nettie  never  removed 
spots.  Though  infrequently  she  said,  "Father,  just 
leave  that  suit  out,  will  you?  I'll  send  it  to  the 
cleaner's  with  George's.  The  man's  coming  to 
morrow  morning."  He  would  look  down  at  himself, 
hastily,  and  attack  a  spot  here  and  there  with  a 
futile  fingernail. 

His  morning  toilette  completed,  he  would  make 
for  the  Fifty-first  Street  L.  Seated  in  the  train 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  49 

he  would  assume  an  air  of  importance  and  testy 
haste ;  glance  out  of  the  window ;  look  at  his  watch. 
You  got  the  impression  of  a  handsome  and  well- 
preserved  old  gentleman  on  his  way  downtown  to 
consummate  a  shrewd  business  deal.  He  had  been 
familiar  with  Chicago's  downtown  for  fifty  years 
and  he  could  remember  when  State  Street  was  a 
tree-shaded  cottage  district.  The  noise  and  rush 
and  clangour  of  the  Loop  had  long  been  familiar  to 
him.  But  now  he  seemed  to  find  the  downtown  trip 
arduous,  even  hazardous.  The  roar  of  the  elevated 
trains,  the  hoarse  hoots  of  the  motor  horns,  the 
clang  of  the  street  cars,  the  bedlam  that  is  Chicago's 
downtown  district  bewildered  him,  frightened  him 
almost.  He  would  skip  across  the  street  like  a 
harried  hare,  just  missing  a  motor  truck's  nose  and 
all  unconscious  of  the  stream  of  invective  directed 
at  him  by  its  charioteer.  "Heh !  Whatcha !  .  .  . 
Look!" —  Sometimes  a  policeman  came  to  his  aid, 
or  attempted  to,  but  he  resented  this  proffered  help. 

"Say,  look  here,  my  lad,"  he  would  say  to  the 
tall,  tired,  and  not  at  all  burly  (standing  on  one's 
feet  directing  traffic  at  Wabash  and  Madison  for 
eight  hours  a  day  does  not  make  for  burliness) 
policeman,  "I've  been  coming  downtown  since  long 
before  you  were  born.  You  don't  need  to  help  me. 
I'm  no  jay  from  the  country." 

He  visited  the  Stock  Exchange.     This  depressed 


50  GIGOLO 

him.  Stocks  were  lower  than  ever  and  still  going 
down.  His  five  hundred  a  year  was  safe,  but  the 
rest  seemed  doomed  for  his  lifetime,  at  least.  He 
would  drop  in  at  George's  office.  George's  office  was 
pleasantly  filled  with  dapper,  neat  young  men  and 
(surprisingly  enough)  dapper,  slim  young  women, 
seated  at  desks  in  the  big  light-flooded  room.  At 
one  corner  of  each  desk  stood  a  polished  metal  plac 
ard  on  a  little  standard,  and  bearing  the  name  of 
the  desk's  occupant.  Mr.  Owens.  Mr.  Satterlee. 
Mr.  James.  Miss  Rauch.  Mr.  Minick. 

"Hello,  Father,"  Mr.  Minick  would  say,  looking 
annoyed.  "What's  bringing  you  down?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  Nothing.  Just  had  a  little  busi 
ness  to  tend  to  over  at  the  Exchange.  Thought  I'd 
drop  in.  How's  business?" 

"Rotten." 

"I  should  think  it  was !"  Old  man  Minick  would 
agree.  "I — should — think — it — was  !  Hm." 

George  wished  he  wouldn't.  He  couldn't  have  it, 
that's  all.  Old  man  Minick  would  stroll  over  to  the 
desk  marked  Satterlee,  or  Owens,  or  James.  These 
brisk  young  men  would  toss  an  upward  glance  at 
him  and  concentrate  again  on  the  sheets  and  files 
before  them.  Old  man  Minick  would  stand,  balanc 
ing  from  heel  to  toe  and  blowing  out  his  breath  a 
little.  He  looked  a  bit  yellow  and  granulated 
and  wavering,  there  in  the  cruel  morning  light  of 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  51 

the  big  plate  glass  windows.  Or  perhaps  it  was  the 
contrast  he  presented  with  these  slim,  slick  young 
salesmen. 

"Well,  h'are  you  to-day,  Mr. — uh — Satterlee? 
What's  the  good  word?" 

Mr.  Satterlee  would  not  glance  up  this  time.  "I'm 
pretty  well.  Can't  complain." 

"Good.     Good." 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 

"No-o-o.  No.  Not  a  thing.  Just  dropped  in 
to  see  my  son  a  minute." 

"I  see."  Not  unkindly.  Then,  as  old  man 
Minick  still  stood  there,  balancing,  Mr.  Satterlee 
would  glance  up  again,  frowning  a  little.  "Your 
son's  desk  is  over  there,  I  believe.  Yes." 

George  and  Nettie  had  a  bedtime  conference  about 
these  visits  and  Nettie  told  him,  gently,  that  the 
bond  house  head  objected  to  friends  and  relatives 
dropping  in.  It  was  against  office  rules.  It  had 
been  so  when  she  was  employed  there.  Strictly 
business.  She  herself  had  gone  there  only  once  since 
her  marriage. 

Well,  that  was  all  right.  Business  was  like  that 
nowdays.  Rush  and  grab  and  no  time  for  anything. 

The  winter  was  a  hard  one,  with  a  record  snow 
fall  and  intense  cold.  He  stayed  indoors  for  days 
together.  A  woman  of  his  own  age  in  like  position 
could  have  occupied  herself  usefully  and  happily. 


52  GIGOLO 

i 

She  could  have  hemmed  a  sash-curtain;  knitted  or 
crocheted ;  tidied  a  room ;  taken  a  hand  in  the  cook 
ing  or  preparing  of  food ;  ripped  an  old  gown ;  made 
over  a  new  one ;  indulged  in  an  occasional  afternoon 
festivity  with  women  of  her  own  years.  But  for  old 
man  Minick  there  were  no  small  tasks.  There  was 
nothing  he  could  do  to  make  his  place  in  the  house 
hold  justifiable.  He  wasn't  even  particularly  good 
at  those  small  jobs  of  hammering,  or  painting,  or 
general  "fixing."  Nettie  could  drive  a  nail  more 
swiftly,  more  surely  than  he.  "Now,  Father,  don't 
you  bother.  I'll  do  it.  Just  you  go  and  sit  down. 
Isn't  it  time  for  your  afternoon  nap?" 

He  waxed  a  little  surly.  "Nap !  I  just  got  up. 
I  don't  want  to  sleep  my  life  away." 

George  and  Nettie  frequently  had  guests  in  the 
evening.  They  played  bridge,  or  poker,  or  talked. 

"Come  in,  Father,"  George  would  say.  "Come  in. 
You  all  know  Dad,  don't  you,  folks  ?"  He  would  sit 
down,  uncertainly.  At  first  he  had  attempted  to 
expound,  as  had  been  his  wont  in  the  old  house  on 
Ellis.  "I  want  to  say,  here  and  now,  that  this 
country's  got  to  .  .  ."  But  they  went  on, 
heedless  of  him.  They  interrupted  or  refused, 
politely,  to  listen.  So  he  sat  in  the  room,  yet  no 
part  of  it.  The  young  people's  talk  swirled  and 
eddied  all  about  him.  He  was  utterly  lost  in  it. 
Now  and  then  Nettie  or  George  would  turn  to  him 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  53 


and  with  raised  voice  (he  was  not  at  all  deaf  and 
prided  himself  on  it)  would  shout,  "It's  about 
this  or  that,  Father.  He  was  saying  .  .  ." 

When  the  group  roared  with  laughter  at  a  sally 
from  one  of  them  he  would  smile  uncertainly  but 
amiably,  glancing  from  one  to  the  other  in  complete 
ignorance  of  what  had  passed,  but  not  resenting  it. 
He  took  to  sitting  more  and  more  in  his  kitchen 
bedroom,  smoking  a  comforting  pipe  and  reading 
and  re-reading  the  evening  paper.  During  that 
winter  he  and  Canary,  the  negro  washwoman,  be 
came  quite  good  friends.  She  washed  down  in  the 
basement  once  a  week  but  came  up  to  the  kitchen 
for  her  massive  lunch.  A  walrus-waisted  black 
woman,  with  a  rich  throaty  voice,  a  rolling  eye,  and 
a  kindly  heart.  He  actually  waited  for  her  appear 
ance  above  the  laundry  stairs. 

"Weh,  how's  Mist'  Minick  to-day!  Ah  nev*  did 
see  a  gemun  spry's  you  ah  fo'  yo'  age.  No,  suh! 
nev'  did." 

At  this  rare  praise  he  would  straighten  his  shoul 
ders  and  waggle  his  head.  "I'm  worth  any  ten  of 
these  young  sprats  to-day."  Canary  would  throw 
back  her  head  in  a  loud  and  companionable  guffaw. 

Nettie  would  appear  at  the  kitchen  swinging  door. 
"Canary's  having  her  lunch,  Father.  Don't  you 
want  to  come  into  the  front  room  with  me?  We'll 
have  our  lunch  in  another  half-hour." 


54  GIGOLO 

He  followed  her  obediently  enough.  Nettie  thought 
of  him  as  a  troublesome  and  rather  pathetic  child — 
a  child  who  would  never  grow  up.  If  she  attributed 
any  thoughts  to  that  fine  old  head  they  were  ambling 
thoughts,  bordering,  perhaps,  on  senility.  Little 
did  she  know  how  expertly  this  old  one  surveyed  her 
and  how  ruthlessly  he  passed  judgment.  She  never 
suspected  the  thoughts  that  formed  in  the  active 
brain. 

He  knew  about  women.  He  had  married  a  wo 
man.  He  had  had  children  by  her.  He  looked  at 
this  woman — his  son's  wife — moving  about  her  little 
five-room  flat.  She  had  theories  about  children. 
He  had  heard  her  expound  them.  You  didn't  have 
them  except  under  such  and  such  circumstances.  It 
wasn't  fair  otherwise.  Plenty  of  money  for  their 
education.  Well.  He  and  his  wife  had  had  three 
children.  Paul,  the  second,  had  died  at  thirteen. 
A  blow,  that  had  been.  They  had  not  always  planned 
for  the  coming  of  the  three  but  they  always  had 
found  a  way,  afterward.  You  managed,  somehow, , 
once  the  little  wrinkled  red  ball  had  fought  its  way 
into  the  world.  You  managed.  You  managed. 
Look  at  George!  Yet  when  he  was  born,  thirty- 
nine  years  ago,  Pa  and  Ma  Minick  had  been  hard 
put  to  it. 

Sitting  there,  while  Nettie  dismissed  him  as  neg 
ligible,  he  saw  her  clearly,  grimly.  He  looked  at; 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  55 

her.  She  was  plump,  but  not  too  short,  with  a 
generous  width  between  the  hips ;  a  broad  full  bosom, 
but  firm;  round  arms  and  quick  slim  legs;  a  fine 
sturdy  throat.  The  curve  between  arm  and  breast 
made  a  graceful  gracious  line  .  .  .  Working  in 
a  bond  office  .  .  .  Working  in  a  bond  office 
There  was  nothing  in  the  Bible  about  work 
ing  in  a  bond  office.  Here  was  a  woman  built  for 
child-bearing. 

She  thought  him  senile,  negligible. 

In  March  Nettie  had  in  a  sewing  woman  for  a 
week.  She  had  her  two  or  three  times  a  year.  A 
hawk-faced  woman  of  about  forty-nine,  with  a  blue 
bottle  figure  and  a  rapacious  eye.  She  sewed  in 
the  dining  room  and  there  was  a  pleasant  hum  of 
machine  and  snip  of  scissors  and  murmur  of  con 
versation  and  rustle  of  silky  stuff ;  and  hot  savoury 
dishes  for  lunch.  She  and  old  man  Minick  became 
great  friends.  She  even  let  him  take  out  bastings. 
This  when  Nettie  had  gone  out  from  two  to  four, 
between  fittings. 

He  chuckled  and  waggled  his  head.  "I  expect  to 
be  paid  regular  assistant's  wages  for  this,"  he  said. 

"I  guess  you  don't  need  any  wages,  Mr.  Minick," 
the  woman  said.  "I  guess  you're  pretty  well  fixed." 

"Oh,  well,  I  can't  complain."  (Five  hundred  a 
year.) 

"Complain !     I  should  say  not !     If  I  was  to  com- 


56  GIGOLO 

plain  it'd  be  different.  Work  all  day  to  keep  my 
self  ;  and  nobody  to  come  home  to  at  night." 

"Widow,  ma'am?" 

"Since  I  was  twenty.  Work,  work,  that's  all  I've 
had.  And  lonesome!  I  suppose  you  don't  know 
what  lonesome  is." 

"Oh,  don't  I !"  slipped  from  him.  He  had  dropped 
the  bastings. 

The  sewing  woman  flashed  a  look  at  him  from  the 
cold  hard  eye.  "Well,  maybe  you  do.  I  suppose 
living  here  like  this,  with  sons  and  daughters,  ain't 
so  grand,  for  all  your  money.  Now  me,  I've  always 
managed  to  keep  my  own  little  place  that  I  could 
call  home,  to  come  back  to.  It's  only  two  rooms, 
and  nothing  to  rave  about,  but  it's  home.  Evenings 
I  just  cook  and  fuss  around.  Nobody  to  fuss  for, 
but  I  fuss,  anyway.  Cooking,  that's  what  I  love 
to  do.  Plenty  of  good  food,  that's  what  folks  need 
to  keep  their  strength  up."  Nettie's  lunch  that  day 
had  been  rather  scant. 

She  was  there  a  week.  In  Nettie's  absence  she 
talked  against  her.  He  protested,  but  weakly.  Did 
she  give  him  egg-nogs?  Milk?  Hot  toddy?  Soup? 
Plenty  of  good  rich  gravy  and  meat  and  puddings? 
Well !  That's  what  folks  needed  when  they  weren't 
so  young  any  more.  Not  that  he  looked  old.  My, 
no.  Sprier  than  many  young  boys,  and  handsomer 
than  his  own  son  if  she  did  say  so. 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  57 

He  fed  on  it,  hungrily.  The  third  day  she  was 
flashing  meaning  glances  at  him  across  the  luncheon 
table.  The  fourth  she  pressed  his  foot  beneath  the 
table.  The  fifth,  during  Nettie's  afternoon  absence, 
she  got  up,  ostensibly  to  look  for  a  bit  of  cloth  which 
she  needed  for  sewing,  and,  passing  him,  laid  a 
caressing  hand  on  his  shoulder.  Laid  it  there  and 
pressed  his  shoulder  ever  so  little.  He  looked  up, 
startled.  The  glances  across  the  luncheon  had 
largely  passed  over  his  head;  the  foot  beneath  the 
table  might  have  been  an  accident.  But  this — this 
was  unmistakable.  He  stood  up,  a  little  shakily. 
She  caught  his  hand.  The  hawk-like  face  was  close 
to  his. 

"You  need  somebody  to  love  you,"  she  said. 
"Somebody  to  do  for  you,  and  love  you."  The 
hawk  face  came  nearer.  He  leaned  a  little  toward 
it.  But  between  it  and  his  face  was  Ma  Minick's 
face,  plump,  patient,  quizzical,  kindly.  His  head 
came  back  sharply.  He  threw  the  woman's  hot 
hand  from  him. 

"Woman !"  he  cried.     "Jezebel !" 

The  front  door  slammed.  Nettie.  The  woman 
flew  to  her  sewing.  Old  man  Minick,  shaking,  went 
into  his  kitchen  bedroom. 

"Well,"  said  Nettie,  depositing  her  bundles  on  the 
dining  room  table,  "did  you  finish  that  faggoting? 
[Why,  you  haven't  done  so  very  much,  have  you !" 


58  GIGOLO 

"I  ain't  feeling  so  good,"  said  the  woman.  "That 
lunch  didn't  agree  with  me." 

"Why,  it  was  a  good  plain  lunch.   I  don't  see " 

"Oh,  it  was  plain  enough,  all  right." 

Next  day  she  did  not  come  to  finish  her  work. 
Sick,  she  telephoned.  Nettie  called  it  an  outrage. 
She  finished  the  sewing  herself,  though  she  hated 
sewing.  Pa  Minick  said  nothing,  but  there  was  a 
light  in  his  eye.  Now  and  then  he  chuckled,  to 
Nettie's  infinite  annoyance,  though  she  said  noth 
ing. 

"Wanted  to  marry  me !"  he  said  to  himself,  chuck 
ling.  "Wanted  to  marry  me!  The  old  rip!" 

At  the  end  of  April,  Pa  Minick  discovered  Wash 
ington  Park,  and  the  Club,  and  his  whole  life  was 
from  that  day  transformed. 

He  had  taken  advantage  of  the  early  spring  sun 
shine  to  take  a  walk,  at  Nettie's  suggestion. 

"Why  don't  you  go  into  the  Park,  Father?  It's 
really  warm  out.  And  the  sun's  lovely.  Do  you 
good." 

He  had  put  on  his  heaviest  shirt,  and  a  muffler, 
and  George's  old  red  sweater  with  the  great  white 
"C"  on  its  front,  emblem  of  George's  athletic  prow 
ess  at  the  University  of  Chicago;  and  over  all,  his 
greatcoat.  He  had  taken  warm  mittens  and  his 
cane  with  the  greyhound's  head  handle,  carved.  So 
equipped  he  had  ambled  uninterestedly  over  to  the 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  59 

Park  across  the  way.  And  there  he  had  found  new 
life. 

New  life  in  old  life.  For  the  park  was  full  of 
old  men.  Old  men  like  himself,  with  greyhound's- 
head  canes,  and  mufflers  and  somebody's  sweater 
worn  beneath  their  greatcoats.  They  wore  arctics, 
though  the  weather  was  fine.  The  skin  of  their 
hands  and  cheek-bones  was  glazed  and  had  a  tight 
look  though  it  lay  in  fine  little  folds.  There  were 
splotches  of  brown  on  the  backs  of  their  hands,  and 
on  the  temples  and  forehead.  Their  heavy  grey  or 
brown  socks  made  comfortable  folds  above  their 
ankles.  From  that  April  morning  until  winter 
drew  on  the  Park  saw  old  man  Minick  daily.  Not 
only  daily  but  by  the  day.  Except  for  his  meals, 
and  a  brief  hour  for  his  after-luncheon  nap,  he 
spent  all  his  time  there. 

For  in  the  park  old  man  Minick  and  all  the  old 
men  gathered  there  found  a  Forum — a  safety  valve 
• — a  means  of  expression.  It  did  not  take  him  long 
to  discover  that  the  Park  was  divided  into  two 
distinct  sets  of  old  men.  There  were  the  old  men 
who  lived  with  their  married  sons  and  daughters-in- 
law  or  married  daughters  and  sons-in-law.  Then 
there  were  the  old  men  who  lived  in  the  Grant  Home 
for  Aged  Gentlemen.  You  saw  its  fine  red-briek 
f  a9ade  through  the  trees  at  the  edge  of  the  Park, 

And  the  slogan  of  these  first  was : 


60  GIGOLO 

"My  son  and  my  da'ter  they  wouldn't  want  me  to 
live  in  any  public  Home.  No,  sirree!  They  want 
me  right  there  with  them.  In  their  own  home. 
That's  the  kind  of  son  and  daughter  I've  got!" 

The  slogan  of  the  second  was: 

"I  wouldn't  live  with  any  son  or  daughter.  In 
dependent.  That's  me.  My  own  boss.  Nobody 
to  tell  me  what  I  can  do  and  what  I  can't.  Treat 
you  like  a  child.  I'm  my  own  boss !  Pay  my  own 
good  money  and  get  my  keep  for  it." 

The  first  group,  strangely  enough,  was  likely  to 
be  spotted  of  vest  and  a  little  frayed  as  to  collar. 
You  saw  them  going  on  errands  for  their  daughters- 
in-law.  A  loaf  of  bread.  Spool  of  white  No.  100.. 
They  took  their  small  grandchildren  to  the  duck 
pond  and  between  the  two  toddlers  hand  in  hand — 
the  old  and  infirm  and  the  infantile  and  infirm — it 
was  hard  to  tell  which  led  which. 

The  second  group  was  shiny  as  to  shoes,  spotless 
as  to  linen,  dapper  as  to  clothes.  They  had  no 
small  errands.  Theirs  was  a  magnificent  leisure. 
And  theirs  was  magnificent  conversation.  The 
questions  they  discussed  and  settled  there  in  the 
Park — these  old  men — were  not  international  merely. 
They  were  cosmic  in  scope. 

The  War?  Peace?  Disarmament?  China?  Free 
love?  Mere  conversational  bubbles  to  be  tossed  in 
the  air  and  disposed  of  in  a  burst  of  foam.  Strong 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  61 

meat  for  old  man  Minick  who  had  so  long  been  fed 
on  pap.  But  he  soon  got  used  to  it.  Between  four 
and  five  in  the  afternoon,  in  a  spot  known  as  Under 
The  Willows,  the  meeting  took  the  form  of  a  club 
— an  open  forum.  A  certain  group  made  up  of 
Socialists,  Free  Thinkers,  parlour  anarchists,  bol- 
shevists,  had  for  years  drifted  there  for  talk.  Old 
man  Minick  learned  high-sounding  phrases.  "The 
Masters  .  .  .  democracy  .  .  .  toil  of  the 
many  for  the  good  of  the  few  .  .  .  the  rul 
ing  class  .  .  .  free  speech  .  .  .  the  Peo 
ple.  .  .  ." 

The  strong-minded  ones  held  forth.  The  weaker 
ones  drifted  about  on  the  outskirts,  sometimes  cling 
ing  to  the  moist  and  sticky  paw  of  a  round-eyed 
grandchild.  Earlier  in  the  day — at  eleven  o'clock, 
say — the  talk  was  not  so  general  nor  so  inclusive. 
The  old  men  were  likely  to  drift  into  groups  of  two 
or  three  or  four.  They  sat  on  sun-bathed  benches 
and  their  conversation  was  likely  to  be  rather 
smutty  at  times,  for  all  they  looked  so  mild  and 
patriarchal  and  desiccated.  They  paid  scant  heed 
to  the  white-haired  old  women  who,  like  themselves, 
were  sunning  in  the  park.  They  watched  the  young 
women  switch  by,  with  appreciative  glances  at  their 
trim  figures  and  slim  ankles.  The  day  of  the  short 
skirt  was  a  grand  time  for  them.  They  chuckled 
among  themselves  and  made  wicked  comment.  One 


62  GIGOLO 

saw  only  white-haired,  placid,  tremulous  old  men, 
but  their  minds  still  worked  with  belated  masculinity 
like  naughty  small  boys  talking  behind  the  barn. 

Old  man  Minick  early  achieved  a  certain  leader 
ship  in  the  common  talk.  He  had  always  liked  to 
hold  forth.  This  last  year  had  been  one  of  almost 
unendurable  bottling  up.  At  first  he  had  timidly 
sought  the  less  assertive  ones  of  his  kind.  Mild  old 
men  who  sat  in  rockers  in  the  pavilion  waiting  for 
lunch  time.  Their  conversation  irritated  him. 
They  remarked  everything  that  passed  before  their 
eyes. 

"There's  a  boat.     Fella  with  a  boat." 

A  silence.     Then,  heavily :  "Yeh." 

Five  minutes. 

"Look  at  those  people  laying  on  the  grass. 
Shouldn't  think  it  was  warm  enough  for  that  .  .  . 
Now  they're  getting  up." 

A  group  of  equestrians  passed  along  the  bridle 
path  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  lagoon.  They  made 
a  frieze  against  the  delicate  spring  greenery.  The 
coats  of  the  women  were  scarlet,  vivid  green,  arrest 
ing,  stimulating. 

"Riders." 

"Yes." 

"Good  weather  for  riding." 

A  man  was  fishing  near  by.  "Good  weather  for 
fishing." 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  63 

"Yes." 

"Wonder  what  time  it  is,  anyway."  From  a 
pocket,  deep-buried,  came  forth  a  great  gold  blob 
of  a  watch.  "I've  got  one  minute  to  eleven." 

Old  man  Minick  dragged  forth  a  heavy  globe. 
"Mm.  I've  got  eleven." 

"Little  fast,  I  guess." 

Old  man  Minick  shook  off  this  conversation  im 
patiently.  This  wasn't  conversation.  This  was 
oral  death,  though  he  did  not  put  it  thus.  He 
joined  the  other  men.  They  were  discussing  Spirit 
ualism.  He  listened,  ventured  an  opinion,  was  heard 
respectfully  and  then  combated  mercilessly.  He 
rose  to  the  verbal  fight,  and  won  it. 

"Let's  see,"  said  one  of  the  old  men.  "You're 
not  living  at  the  Grant  Home,  are  you?" 

"No,"  old  man  Minick  made  reply,  proudly.  "I 
live  with  my  son  and  his  wife.  They  wouldn't  have 
it  any  other  way." 

"Hm.          Like  to  be  independent  myself." 

"Lonesome,  ain't  it?     Over  there?" 

"Lonesome!  Say,  Mr. — what'd  you  say  your 
name  was?  Minick?  Mine's  Hughes — I  never  was 
lonesome  in  my  life  'cept  for  six  months  when  I 
lived  with  my  daughter  and  her  husband  and  their 
five  children.  Yes,  sir.  That's  what  I  call  lone 
some,  in  an  eight-room  flat." 

George  and  Nettie  said,  "It's  doing  you  good, 


64  GIGOLO 

Father,  being  out  in  the  air  so  much."  His  eyes 
were  brighter,  his  figure  straighter,  his  colour  bet^ 
ter.  It  was  that  day  he  had  held  forth  so  elo 
quently  on  the  emigration  question.  He  had  to 
read  a  lot — papers  and  magazines  and  one  thing  and 
another — to  keep  up.  He  devoured  all  the  books  and 
pamphlets  about  bond  issues  and  national  finances 
brought  home  by  George.  In  the  Park  he  was  con 
sidered  an  authority  on  bonds  and  banking.  He  and 
a  retired  real-estate  man  named  Mowry  sometimes 
debated  a  single  question  for  weeks.  George  and 
Nettie,  relieved,  thought  he  ambled  to  the  Park  and 
spent  senile  hours  with  his  drooling  old  friends  dis 
cussing  nothing  amiably  and  witlessly.  This  while 
he  was  eating  strong  meat,  drinking  strong  drink. 

Summer  sped.  Was  past.  Autumn  held  a  new 
dread  for  old  man  Minick.  When  winter  came 
where  should  he  go?  Where  should  he  go?  Not 
back  to  the  five-room  flat  all  day,  and  the  little  back 
bedroom,  and  nothingness.  In  his  mind  there  rang 
a  childish  old  song  they  used  to  sing  at  school.  A 
silly  song: 

Where  do  all  the  birdies  go? 
7  know.     /  know. 

But  he  didn't  know.  He  was  terror-stricken* 
October  came  and  went.  With  the  first  of  Novem 
ber  the  Park  became  impossible,  even  at  noon,  and 
with  two  overcoats  and  the  sweater.  The  first  frost 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  65 

was  a  black  frost  for  him.  He  scanned  the  heavens 
daily  for  rain  or  snow.  There  was  a  cigar  store  and 
billiard  room  on  the  corner  across  the  boulevard  and 
there  he  sometimes  went,  with  a  few  of  his  Park 
cronies,  to  stand  behind  the  players'  chairs  and 
>  watch  them  at  pinochle  or  rum.  But  this  was  a  dull 
business.  Besides,  the  Grant  men  never  came  there. 
They  had  card  rooms  of  their  own. 

He  turned  away  from  this  smoky  little  den  on  a 
drab  November  day,  sick  at  heart.  The  winter. 
He  tried  to  face  it,  and  at  what  he  saw  he  shrank  and 
was  afraid. 

He  reached  the  apartment  and  went  around  to 
the  rear,  dutifully.  His  rubbers  were  wet  and  muddy 
and  Nettie's  living-room  carpet  was  a  fashionable 
grey.  The  back  door  was  unlocked.  It  was  Can 
ary's  day  downstairs,  he  remembered.  He  took  off 
his  rubbers  in  the  kitchen  and  passed  into  the  dining 
room.  Voices.  Nettie  had  company.  Some  friends, 
probably,  for  tea.  He  turned  to  go  to  his  room,  but 
stopped  at  hearing  his  own  name.  Father  Minick. 
Father  Minick.  Nettie's  voice. 

"Of  course,  if  it  weren't  for  Father  Minick  I  would 
have.  But  how  can  we  as  long  as  he  lives  with  us? 
There  isn't  room.  And  we  can't  afford  a  bigger 
place  now,  with  rents  what  they  are.  This  way  it 
wouldn't  be  fair  to  the  child.  We've  talked  it  over, 
George  and  I.  Don't  you  suppose?  But  not  as 


66  GIGOLO 

long  as  Father  Minick  is  with  us.  I  don't  mean 
we'd  use  the  maid's  room  for  a — for  the — if  we  had 
a  baby.  But  I'd  have  to  have  someone  in  to  help, 
then,  and  we'd  have  to  have  that  extra  room." 

He  stood  there  in  the  dining  room,  quiet.  Quiet. 
His  body  felt  queerly  remote  and  numb,  but  his  mind 
was  working  frenziedly.  Clearly,  too,  in  spite  of 
the  frenzy.  Death.  That  was  the  first  thought. 
Death.  It  would  be  easy.  But  he  didn't  want  to 
die.  Strange,  but  he  didn't  want  to  die.  He  liked 
Life.  The  Park,  the  trees,  the  Club,  the  talk,  the 
whole  show.  .  .  .  Nettie  was  a  good  girl  .  .  . 
The  old  must  make  way  for  the  young.  They  had 
the  right  to  be  born  .  .  .  Maybe  it  was  just 
another  excuse.  Almost  four  years  married.  Why 
not  three  years  ago?  .  .  .  The  right  to  live. 
The  right  to  live.  .  .  . 

He  turned,  stealthily,  stealthily,  and  went  back 
into  the  kitchen,  put  on  his  rubbers,  stole  out  into 
the  darkening  November  afternoon. 

In  an  hour  he  was  back.  He  entered  at  the 
front  door  this  time,  ringing  the  bell.  He  had  never 
had  a  key.  As  if  he  were  a  child  they  would  not 
trust  him  with  one.  Nettie's  women  friends  were 
just  leaving.  In  the  air  you  smelled  a  mingling  of 
perfume,  and  tea,  and  cakes,  and  powder.  He 
sniffed  it,  sensitively. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Minick !"  they  said.     "How 


OLD  MAN  MINICK  67 

are  you!     Well,  you  certainly  look  it.     And  how 
do  you  manage  these  gloomy  days  ?" 

He  smiled  genially,  taking  off  his  greatcoat  and 
revealing  the  red  sweater  with  the  big  white  "C"  on 
it.  "I  manage.  I  manage."  He  puffed  out  his 
cheeks.  "I'm  busy  moving." 

"Moving!"  Nettie's  startled  eyes  flew  to  his,  held 
them.  "Moving,  Father?" 

"Old  folks  must  make  way  for  the  young,"  he 
said,  gaily.  "That's  the  law  of  life.  Yes,  sir! 
New  ones.  New  ones." 

Nettie's  face  was  scarlet.     "Father,  what  in  the 

world " 

"I  signed  over  at  the  Grant  Home  to-day.  Move 
in  next  week."  The  women  looked  at  her,  smiling. 
Old  man  Minick  came  over  to  her  and  patted  her 
plump  arm.  Then  he  pinched  her  smooth  cheek  with 
a  quizzical  thumb  and  forefinger.  Pinched  it  and 
shook  it  ever  so  little. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Nettie,  out 
of  breath. 

"Yes,  you  do,"  said  old  man  Minick,  and  while 
his  tone  was  light  and  jesting  there  was  in  his  old 
face  something  stern,  something  menacing.  "Yes, 
you  do." 

When  he  entered  the  Grant  Home  a  group  of  them 
was  seated  about  the  fireplace  in  the  main  hall.  A 


68  GIGOLO 

neat,  ruddy,  septuagenarian  circle.  They  greeted 
him  casually,  with  delicacy  of  feeling,  as  if  he  were 
merely  approaching  them  at  their  bench  in  the  Park. 

"Say,  Minick,  look  here.  Mowry  here  snys  China 
ought  to  have  been  included  in  the  four-power 
treaty.  He  says " 

Old  man  Minick  cleared  his  throat.  VYou  take 
China,  now,"  he  said,  "with  her  vast  and  practically, 
you  might  say,  virgin  country,  why " 

An  apple-cheeked  maid  in  a  black  dress  and  a 
white  apron  stopped  before  him.  He  paused. 

"Housekeeper  says  for  me  to  tell  you  your  room's 
all  ready,  if  you'd  like  to  look  at  it  now." 

"Minute.  Minute,  my  child."  He  waved  her 
aside  with  the  air  of  one  who  pays  five  hundred  a 
year  for  independence  and  freedom.  The  girl  turned 
to  go.  "Uh — young  lady!  Young  lady!"  She 
looked  at  him.  "Tell  the  housekeeper  two  pillows, 
please.  Two  pillows  on  my  bed.  Be  sure." 

"Yes,  sir.     Two  pillows.     Yes,  sir.     I'll  be  sure." 


GIGOLO 

IN  THE  first  place,  gigolo  is  slang.     In  the  sec 
ond   place    (with   no   desire  to   appear  patro 
nizing,    but    one's    French    conversation    class 
does  not  include  the  argot),  it  is  French  slang.     In 
the  third  place,  the  gig  is  pronounced  zhig,  and  the 
whole  is  not  a  respectable  word.     Finally,  it  is  a 
term  of  utter  contempt. 

A  gigolo,  generally  speaking,  is  a  man  who  lives 
off  women's  money.  In  the  mad  year  1922  A.  W.> 
a  gigolo,  definitely  speaking,  designated  one  of 
those  incredible  and  pathetic  male  creatures,  born  of 
the  war,  who,  for  ten  francs  or  more  or  even  less, 
would  dance  with  any  woman  wishing  to  dance  on  the 
crowded  floors  of  public  tea  rooms,  dinner  or  sup 
per  rooms  in  the  cafes,  hotels,  and  restaurants  of 
France.  Lean,  sallow,  handsome,  expert,  and  un 
wholesome,  one  saw  them  everywhere,  their  slim 
waists  and  sleek  heads  in  juxtaposition  to  plump, 
respectable  American  matrons  and  slender,  respect 
able  American  flappers.  For  that  matter,  feminine 
respectability  of  almost  every  nationality  (except 
the  French)  yielded  itself  to  the  skilful  guidance 


70  GIGOLO 

of  the  genus  gigolo  in  the  tango  or  fox-trot.  Nat 
urally,  no  decent  French  girl  would  have  been  al 
lowed  for  a  single  moment  to  dance  with  a  gigolo. 
But  America,  touring  Europe  like  mad  after  years 
of  enforced  absence,  outnumbered  all  other  nations 
atravel  ten  to  one. 

By  no  feat  of  fancy  could  one  imagine  Gideon 
Gory,  of  the  Winnebago,  Wisconsin,  Gorys,  em 
ployed  daily  and  nightly  as  a  gigolo  in  the  gilt  and 
marble  restaurants  that  try  to  outsparkle  the  Medi 
terranean  along  the  Promenade  des  Anglais  in  Nice. 
Gideon  Gory,  of  Winnebago,  Wisconsin!  Why, 
any  one  knows  that  the  Gorys  were  to  Winnebago 
what  the  Romanoffs  were  to  Russia — royal,  remote, 
omnipotent.  Yet  the  Romanoffs  went  in  the  cata 
clysm,  and  so,  too,  did  the  Gorys.  To  appreciate 
the  depths  to  which  the  boy  Gideon  had  fallen  one 
must  have  known  the  Gorys  in  their  glory.  It  hap 
pened  something  like  this : 

The  Gorys  lived  for  years  in  the  great,  ugly, 
sprawling,  luxurious  old  frame  house  on  Cass  Street. 
It  was  high  up  on  the  bluff  overlooking  the  Fox 
River  and,  incidentally,  the  huge  pulp  and  paper 
mills  across  the  river  in  which  the  Gory  money  hadi 
been  made.  The  Gorys  were  so  rich  and  influential  '• 
(for  Winnebago,  Wisconsin)  that  they  didn't  bother 
to  tear  down  the  old  frame  house  and  build  a  stone 
one,  or  to  cover  its  faded  front  with  cosmetics  of; 


GIGOLO  71 

stucco.  In  most  things  the  Gorys  led  where  Win 
nebago  could  not  follow.  They  disdained  to  follow 
where  Winnebago  led.  The  Gorys  had  an  auto 
mobile  when  those  vehicles  were  entered  from  the 
rear  and  when  Winnebago  roads  were  a  wallow  of 
mud  in  the  spring  and  fall  and  a  snow-lined  trench  in 
the  winter.  The  family  was  of  the  town,  and  yet 
apart  from  it.  The  Gorys  knew  about  golf,  and 
played  it  in  far  foreign  playgrounds  when  the  rest  of 
us  thought  of  it,  if  we  thought  of  it  at  all,  as  some 
thing  vaguely  Scotch,  like  haggis.  They  had  ori 
ental  rugs  and  hardwood  floors  when  the  town  still 
stepped  on  carpets ;  and  by  the  time  the  rest  of  the 
town  had  caught  up  on  rugs  the  Gorys  had  gone 
back  to  carpets,  neutral  tinted.  They  had  fireplaces 
in  bedrooms,  and  used  them,  like  characters  in  an 
English  novel.  Old  Madame  Gory  had  a  slim  patent 
leather  foot,  with  a  buckle,  and  carried  a  sunshade 
when  she  visited  the  flowers  in  the  garden.  Old 
Gideon  was  rumoured  to  have  wine  with  his  din 
ner.  Gideon  Junior  (father  of  Giddy)  smoked  ciga 
rettes  with  his  monogram  on  them.  Shroeder's  gro 
cery  ordered  endive  for  them,  all  blanched  and 
delicate  in  a  wicker  basket  from  France  or  Belgium, 
when  we  had  just  become  accustomed  to  head- 
lettuce. 

Every  prosperous  small  American  town  has  its 
Gory  family.     Every  small  town  newspaper  relishes 


72  GIGOLO 

the  savoury  tid-bits  that  fall  from  the  rich  table  of 
the  family  life.  Thus  you  saw  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gideon  Gory,  Jr.,  have  returned  from  California 
where  Mr.  Gory  had  gone  for  the  polo.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Gideon  Gory,  Jr.,  announce  the  birth, 
in  New  York,  of  a  son,  Gideon  III  (our,  in  a  manner 
of  speaking,  hero).  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gideon  Gory, 
Jr.,  and  son  Gideon  III,  left  to-day  for  England  and 
the  continent.  It  is  understood  that  Gideon  III 
will  be  placed  at  school  in  England.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gideon  Gory,  accompanied  by  Madame  Gory,  have 
gone  to  Chicago  for  a  week  of  the  grand  opera. 

Born  of  all  this,  you  would  have  thought  that 
young  Giddy  would  grow  up  a  somewhat  objection 
able  young  man;  and  so,  in  fact,  he  did,  though 
not  nearly  so  objectionable  as  he  might  well  have 
been,  considering  things  in  general  and  his  mother 
in  particular.  At  sixteen,  for  example,  Giddy 
was  driving  his  own  car — a  car  so  exaggerated  and 
low-slung  and  with  such  a  long  predatory  a.id  glit 
tering  nose  that  one  marvelled  at  the  expertness 
with  which  he  swung  its  slim  length  around  the 
corners  of  our  narrow  tree-shaded  streets.  He  was 
a  real  Gory,  was  Giddy,  with  his  thick  waving 
black  hair  (which  he  tried  for  vain  years  to  train 
into  docility),  his  lean  swart  face,  and  his  slightly 
hooked  Gory  nose.  In  appearance  Winnebago  pro 
nounced  him  foreign  looking — an  attribute  which  he 


GIGOLO  73 

later  turned  into  a  doubtful  asset  in  Nice.  On  the 
rare  occasions  when  Giddy  graced  Winnebago  with 
his  presence  you  were  likely  to  find  him  pursuing 
the  pleasures  that  occupied  other  Winnebago  boys 
of  his  age,  if  not  station.  In  some  miraculous  way 
he  had  escaped  being  a  snob.  Still,  training  and 
travel  combined  to  lead  him  into  many  innocent 
errors.  When  he  dropped  into  Fetzer's  pool  shack 
carrying  a  malacca  cane,  for  example.  He  had 
carried  a  cane  every  day  for  six  months  in  Paris, 
whence  he  had  just  returned.  Now  it  was  as  much 
a  part  of  his  street  attire  as  his  hat — more,  to  be 
exact,  for  the  hatless  head  had  just  then  become  the 
street  mode.  There  was  a  good  game  of  Kelly  in 
progress.  Giddy,  leaning  slightly  on  his  stick, 
stood  watching  it.  Suddenly  he  was  aware  that  all 
about  the  dim  smoky  little  room  players  and  loung 
ers  were  standing  in  attitudes  of  exaggerated 
elegance.  Each  was  leaning  on  a  cue,  his  elbow 
crooked  in  as  near  an  imitation  of  Giddy's  posi 
tion  as  the  stick's  length  would  permit.  The  figure 
was  curved  so  that  it  stuck  out  behind  and  before; 
the  expression  on  each  face  was  as  asinine  as  its 
owner's  knowledge  of  the  comic-weekly  swell  could 
make  it;  the  little  finger  of  the  free  hand  was  ex 
travagantly  bent.  The  players  themselves  walked 
with  a  mincing  step  about  the  table.  And:  "My 
deah  fellah,  what  a  pretty  play.  Mean  to  say,  neat, 


74  GIGOLO 

don't  you  know,"  came  incongruously  from  the  lips 
of  Reddy  Lennigan,  whose  father  ran  the  Lennigan 
House  on  Outagamie  Street.  He  spatted  his  large 
hands  delicately  together  in  further  expression  of 
approval. 

"Think  so?"  giggled  his  opponent,  Mr.  Dutchy 
Meisenberg.  "Aw — fly  sweet  of  you  to  say  so,  old 
thing."  He  tucked  his  unspeakable  handkerchief 
up  his  cuff  and  coughed  behind  his  palm.  He  turned 
to  Giddy.  "Excuse  my  not  having  my  coat  on, 
deah  boy." 

Just  here  Giddy  might  have  done  a  number  of 
things,,  all  wrong.  The  game  was  ended.  He 
walked  to  the  table,  and,  using  the  offending  stick 
as  a  cue,  made  a  rather  pretty  shot  that  he  had 
learned  from  Benoit  in  London.  Then  he  ranged 
the  cane  neatly  on  the  rack  with  the  cues.  He  even 
grinned  a  little  boyishly.  "You  win,"  he  said.  "My 
treat.  What '11  you  have?" 

Which  was  pretty  sporting  for  a  boy  whose  Ameri 
can  training  had  been  what  Giddy's  had  been. 

Giddy's  father,  on  the  death  of  old  Gideon,  proved 
himself  much  more  expert  at  dispensing  the  paper 
mill  money  than  at  accumulating  it.  After  old  Ma 
dame  Gory's  death  just  one  year  following  that  of 
her  husband,  Winnebago  saw  less  and  less  of  the 
three  remaining  members  of  the  royal  family.  The 
frame  house  on  the  river  bluff  would  be  closed  for  a 


GIGOLO  75 

year  or  more  at  a  time.    Giddy's  father  rather  liked 

'  Winnebago  and  would  have  been  content  to  spend  six 

months   of   the   year   in   the   old   Gory   house,   but 

I  Giddy's  mother,  who  had  been  a  Leyden,   of  New 

'  York,  put  that  idea  out  of  his  head  pretty  effectively. 

"Don't  talk  to  me,"  she  said,  "about  your  duty 

toward  the  town  that  gave  you  your  money  and  all 

that  kind  of  feudal  rot  because  you  know  you  don't 

mean  it.     It  bores  you  worse  than  it  does  me,  really, 

but  you  like  to  think  that  the  villagers  are  pulling  a 

forelock  when  you  walk  down  Normal  Avenue.  As  a 

matter  of  fact  they're  not  doing  anything  of  the 

kind.     They've    got    their    thumbs    to   their    noses, 

more  likely." 

Her  husband  protested  rather  weakly.  "I  don't 
care.  I  like  the  old  shack.  I  know  the  heating  appa 
ratus  is  bum  and  that  we  get  the  smoke  from  the 
paper  mills,  but — I  don't  know — last  year,  when 
we  had  that  punk  pink  palace  at  Cannes  I  kept 

thinking " 

Mrs.  Gideon  Gory  raised  the  Leyden  eyebrow. 
"Don't  get  sentimental,  Gid,  for  God's  sake!  It's 
a  shanty,  and  you  know  it.  And  you  know  that  it 
needs  everything  from  plumbing  to  linen.  I  don't 
see  any  sense  in  sinking  thousands  in  making  it 
livable  when  we  don't  want  to  live  in  it." 

"But  I  do  want  to  live  in  it — once  in  a  while.  I'm 
used  to  it.  I  was  brought  up  in  it.  So  was  the  kid. 


76  GIGOLO 

He  likes  it,  too.  Don't  you,  Giddy?"  The  boy  was 
present,  as  usual,  at  this  particular  scene. 

The  boy  worshipped  his  mother.  But,  also,  he 
was  honest.  So,  "Yeh,  I  like  the  oP  barn  all  right," 
he  confessed. 

Encouraged,  his  father  went  on :  "Yesterday  the 
kid  was  standing  out  there  on  the  bluff-edge  breath 
ing  like  a  whale,  weren't  you,  Giddy?  And  when 
I  asked  him  what  he  was  puffing  about  he  said  he 
liked  the  smell  of  the  sulphur  and  chemicals  and  stuff 
from  the  paper  mills,  didn't  you,  kid?" 

Shame-facedly,  "Yeh,"  said  Giddy. 

Betrayed  thus  by  husband  and  adored  son,  the 
Leyden  did  battle.  "You  can  both  stay  here,  then," 
she  retorted  with  more  spleen  than  elegance,  "and 
sniff  sulphur  until  you're  black  in  the  face.  I'm 
going  to  London  in  May." 

They,  too,  went  to  London  in  May,  of  course,  as 
she  had  known  they  would.  She  had  not  known, 
though,  that  in  leading  her  husband  to  England  in 
May  she  was  leading  him  to  his  death  as  well. 

"All  Winnebago  will  be  shocked  and  grieved  to 
learn,"  said  the  Winnebago  Courier  to  the  extent 
of  two  columns  and  a  cut,  "of  the  sudden  and  violent 
death  in  England  of  her  foremost  citizen,  Gideon 
Gory.  Death  was  due  to  his  being  thrown  from  his 
horse  while  hunting." 

.     .     .     To  being  thrown  from  his   horse  while 


GIGOLO  77 

hunting.  Shocked  and  grieved  though  it  might  or 
might  not  be,  Winnebago  still  had  the  fortitude  to 
savour  this  with  relish.  Winnebago  had  died  deaths 
natural  and  unnatural.  It  had  been  run  over  by 
automobiles,  and  had  its  skull  fractured  at  football, 
and  been  drowned  in  Lake  Winnebago,  and  struck  by 
lightning,  and  poisoned  by  mushrooms,  and  shot 
by  burglars.  But  never  had  Winnebago  citizen 
had  the  distinction  of  meeting  death  by  being  thrown 
from  his  horse  while  hunting.  While  hunting. 
Scarlet  coats.  Hounds  in  full  cry.  Baronial  halls. 
Hunt  breakfasts.  Vogue.  Vanity  Fair. 

Well!  Winnebago  was  almost  grateful  for  this 
final  and  most  picturesque  gesture  of  Gideon  Gory 
the  second. 

The  widowed  Leyden  did  not  even  take  the  trouble 
personally  to  superintend  the  selling  of  the  Gory 
place  on  the  river  bluff.  It  was  sold  by  an  agent 
while  she  and  Giddy  were  in  Italy,  and  if  she  was  ever 
aware  that  the  papers  in  the  transaction  stated  that 
the  house  had  been  bought  by  Orson  J.  Hubbell  she 
soon  forgot  the  fact  and  the  name.  Giddy,  leaning 
over  her  shoulder  while  she  handled  the  papers,  and 
signing  on  the  line  indicated  by  a  legal  forefinger, 
may  have  remarked: 

"Hubbell.  That's  old  Hubbell,  the  dray  man. 
Must  be  money  in  the  draying  line." 

Which  was  pretty  stupid  of  him,  because  he  should 


78  GIGOLO 

have  known  that  the  draying  business  was  now  devel 
oped  into  the  motor  truck  business  with  great  vans 
roaring  their  way  between  Winnebago  and  Kau- 
kauna,  Winnebago  and  Neenah,  and  even  Winnebago 
and  Oshkosh.  He  learned  that  later. 

Just  now  Giddy  wasn't  learning  much  of  anything, 
and,  to  do  him  credit,  the  fact  distressed  him  not  a 
little.  His  mother  insisted  that  she  needed  him,  and 
developed  a  bad  heart  whenever  he  rebelled  and 
threatened  to  sever  the  apron-strings.  They  lived 
abroad  entirely  now.  Mrs.  Gory  showed  a  talent  for 
spending  the  Gory  gold  that  must  have  set  old 
Gideon  to  whirling  in  his  Winnebago  grave.  Her 
spending  of  it  was  foolish  enough,  but  her  handling 
of  it  was  criminal.  She  loved  Europe.  America 
bored  her.  She  wanted  to  identify  herself  with 
foreigners,  with  foreign  life.  Against  advice  she 
sold  her  large  and  lucrative  interest  in  the  Winne 
bago  paper  mills  and  invested  great  sums  in  French 
stocks,  in  Russian  enterprises,  in  German  shares. 

She  liked  to  be  mistaken  for  a  French  woman. 

She  and  Gideon  spoke  the  language  like  natives — 
or  nearly. 

She  was  vain  of  Gideon's  un-American  looks,  and 
cross  with  him  when,  on  their  rare  and  brief  visits 
to  New  York,  he  insisted  that  he  liked  American 
tailoring  and  American-made  shoes.  Once  or  twice, 
soon  after  his  father's  death,  he  had  said,  casually, 


GIGOLO  79 

"You  didn't  like  Winnebago,  did  you?  Living  in 
it,  I  mean." 

"Like  it !" 

"Well,  these  English,  I  mean,  and  French — they 
sort  of  grow  up  in  a  place,  and  stay  with  it  and  be 
long  to  it,  see  what  I  mean?  and  it  gives  you  a  kind 
of  permanent  feeling.  Not  patriotic,  exactly,  but 
solid  and  native  heathy  and  Scots-wha-hae-wi'-Wal- 
lace  and  all  that  kind  of  slop." 

"Giddy  darling,  don't  be  silly." 

Occasionally,  too,  he  said,  "Look  here,  Julia" — 
she  liked  this  modern  method  of  address — "look  here, 
Julia,  I  ought  to  be  getting  busy.  Doing  something. 
Here  I  am,  nineteen,  and  I  can't  do  a  thing  except 
dance  pretty  well,  but  not  as  well  as  that  South 
American  eel  we  met  last  week ;  mix  a  cocktail  pretty 
well,  but  not  as  good  a  one  as  Benny  the  bartender 
turns  out  at  Voyot's ;  ride  pretty  well,  but  not  as 
well  as  the  English  chaps ;  drive  a  car " 

She  interrupted  him  there.  "Drive  a  car  better 
than  even  an  Italian  chauffeur.  Had  you  there, 
Giddy  darling." 

She  undoubtedly  had  Giddy  darling  there.  His 
driving  was  little  short  of  miraculous,  and  his  feel 
ing  for  the  intricate  inside  of  a  motor  engine  was 
as  delicate  and  unerring  as  that  of  a  professional 
pianist  for  his  pet  pianoforte.  They  motored  a 
good  deal,  with  France  as  a  permanent  background 


80  GIGOLO 

and  all  Europe  as  a  playground.  They  flitted  about 
the  continent,  a  whirl  of  glittering  blue-and-cream 
enamel,  tan  leather  coating,  fur  robes,  air  cushions, 
gold-topped  flasks,  and  petrol.  Giddy  knew  Como 
and  Villa  D'Este  as  the  place  where  that  pretty 
Hungarian  widow  had  borrowed  a  thousand  lires 
from  him  at  the  Casino  roulette  table  and  never  paid 
him  back;  London  as  a  pleasing  potpourri  of  briar 
pipes,  smart  leather  gloves,  music-hall  revues,  and 
night  clubs ;  Berlin  as  a  rather  stuffy  hole  where 
they  tried  to  ape  Paris  and  failed,  but  you  had  to 
hand  it  to  Charlotte  when  it  came  to  the  skating  at 
the  Eis  Palast.  A  pleasing  existence,  but  unprof 
itable.  No  one  saw  the  cloud  gathering  because  of 
cloud  there  was  none,  even  of  the  man's-hand  size 
so  often  discerned  as  a  portent. 

When  the  storm  broke  (this  must  be  hurriedly 
passed  over  because  of  the  let's-not-talk-about- 
the-war-I'm-so-sick-of-it-aren't-you  feeling)  Giddy 
promptly  went  into  the  Lafayette  Escadrille.  Later 
he  learned  never  to  mention  this  to  an  American 
because  the  American  was  so  likely  to  say,  "There 
must  have  been  about  eleven  million  scrappers  in 
that  outfit.  Every  fella  you  meet's  been  in  the  La 
fayette  Escadrille.  If  all  the  guys  were  in  it  that 
say  they  were  they  could  have  licked  the  Germans  the 
first  day  out.  That  outfit's  worse  than  the  old 
Floradora  Sextette." 


GIGOLO  81 

Mrs.  Gory  was  tremendously  proud  of  him,  and 
not  as  worried  as  she  should  have  been.  She  thought 
it  all  a  rather  smart  game,  and  not  at  all  serious. 
She  wasn't  even  properly  alarmed  about  her  Euro 
pean  money,  at  first.  Giddy  looked  thrillingly  dis 
tinguished  and  handsome  in  his  aviation  uniform. 
When  she  walked  in  the  Paris  streets  with  him  she 
glowed  like  a  girl  with  her  lover.  But  after  the  first 
six  months  of  it  Mrs.  Gory,  grown  rather  drawn 
and  haggard,  didn't  think  the  whole  affair  quite  so 
delightful.  She  scarcely  ever  saw  Giddy.  She 
never  heard  the  drum  of  an  airplane  without  getting 
a  sick,  gone  feeling  at  the  pit  of  her  stomach.  She 
knew,  now,  that  there  was  more  to  the  air  service 
than  a  becoming  uniform.  She  was  doing  some  war 
work  herself  in  an  incompetent,  frenzied  sort  of 
way.  With  Giddy  soaring  high  and  her  foreign 
stocks  and  bonds  falling  low  she  might  well  be  ex 
cused  for  the  panic  that  shook  her  from  the  time  she 
opened  her  eyes  in  the  morning  until  she  tardily 
closed  them  at  night. 

"Let's  go  home,  Giddy  darling,"  like  a  scared 
child. 

"Where's  that?" 

"Don't  be  cruel.  America's  the  only  safe  place 
now." 

"Too  darned  safe!"     This  was  1915. 

By  1917  she  was  actually  in  need  of  money.     But, 


82  GIGOLO 

Giddy  did  not  know  much  about  this  because  Giddy 
had,  roughly  speaking,  got  his.  He  had  the  habit 
of  soaring  up  into  the  sunset  and  sitting  around  in 
a  large  pink  cloud  like  a  kid  bouncing  on  a  feather 
bed.  Then,  one  day,  he  soared  higher  and  farther 
than  he  knew,  having,  perhaps,  grown  careless 
through  over-confidence.  He  heard  nothing  above 
the  roar  of  his  own  engine,  and  the  two  planes  were 
upon  him  almost  before  he  knew  it.  They  were  not 
French,  or  English,  or  American  planes.  He  got 
one  of  them  and  would  have  got  clean  away  if  the 
other  had  not  caught  him  in  the  arm.  The  right  arm. 
His  mechanician  lay  limp.  Even  then  he  might  have 
managed  a  landing  but  the  pursuing  plane  got  in 
a  final  shot.  There  followed  a  period  of  time  that 
seemed  to  cover,  say,  six  years  but  that  was  actually 
only  a  matter  of  seconds.  At  the  end  of  that  period 
Giddy,  together  with  a  tangle  of  wire,  silk,  wood, 
and  something  that  had  been  the  mechanician,  lay  in 
side  the  German  lines,  and  you  would  hardly  have 
thought  him  worth  the  disentangling. 

They  did  disentangle  him,  though,  and  even 
patched  him  up  pretty  expertly,  but  not  so  expertly, 
perhaps,  as  they  might  have,  being  enemy  surgeons 
and  rather  busy  with  the  patching  of  their  own  in 
jured.  The  bone,  for  example,  in  the  lower 
right  arm,  knitted  promptly  and  properly,  being  a 
young  and  healthy  bone,  but  they  rather  over- 


GIGOLO  83 

looked  the  matter  of  arm  nerves  and  muscles,  so  that 
later,  though  it  looked  a  perfectly  proper  arm,  it 
couldn't  lift  four  pounds.  His  head  had  emerged 
slowly,  month  by  month,  from  swathings  of  gauze. 
What  had  heen  quite  a  crevasse  in  his  skull  became 
only  a  scarlet  scar  that  his  hair  pretty  well  hid  when 
he  brushed  it  over  the  bad  place.  But  the  surgeon, 
perhaps  being  overly  busy,  or  having  no  real  way 
of  knowing  that  Giddy's  nose  had  been  a  distin 
guished  and  aristocratically  hooked  Gory  nose,  had 
remoulded  that  wrecked  feature  into  a  pure  Greek 
line  at  first  sight  of  which  Giddy  stood  staring 
weakly  into  the  mirror ;  reeling  a  little  with  surprise 
and  horror  and  unbelief  and  general  misery.  "Can 
this  be  I?"  he  thought,  feeling  like  the  old  man 
of  the  bramble  bush  in  the  Mother  Goose  rhyme. 
A  well-made  and  becoming  nose,  but  not  so  fine  look 
ing  as  the  original  feature  had  been,  as  worn  by 
Giddy. 

"Look  here !"  he  protested  to  the  surgeon,  months 
too  late.  "Look  here,  this  isn't  my  nose." 

"Be  glad,"  replied  that  practical  Prussian  person, 
"that  you  have  any." 

With  his  knowledge  of  French  and  English  and 
German  Giddy  acted  as  interpreter  during  the 
months  of  his  invalidism  and  later  internment,  and 
things  were  not  so  bad  with  him.  He  had  no  news 
of  his  mother,  though,  and  no  way  of  knowing 


84  GIGOLO 

whether  she  had  news  of  him.  With  1918,  and 
the  Armistice  and  his  release,  he  hurried  to  Paris 
and  there  got  the  full  impact  of  the  past  year's 
events. 

Julia  Gory  was  dead  and  the  Gory  money  non 
existent. 

Out  of  the  ruins — a  jewel  or  two  and  some  paper 
not  quite  worthless — he  managed  a  few  thousand 
francs  and  went  to  Nice.  There  he  walked  in  the 
sunshine,  and  sat  in  the  sunshine,  and  even  danced  in 
the  sunshine,  a  dazed  young  thing  together  with 
hundreds  of  other  dazed  young  things,  not  think 
ing,  not  planning,  not  hoping.  Existing  only  in 
a  state  of  semi-consciousness  like  one  recovering  from 
a  blinding  blow.  The  francs  dribbled  away.  Some 
times  he  played  baccarat  and  won;  oftener  he 
played  baccarat  and  lost.  He  moved  in  a  sort  of 
trance,  feeling  nothing.  Vaguely  he  knew  that  there 
was  a  sort  of  Conference  going  on  in  Paris.  Some 
times  he  thought  of  Winnebago,  recalling  it  re 
motely,  dimly,  as  one  is  occasionally  conscious  of 
a  former  unknown  existence.  Twice  he  went  to 
Paris  for  periods  of  some  months,  but  he  was  un 
happy  there  and  even  strangely  bewildered,  like  a 
child.  He  was  still  sick  in  mind  and  body,  though 
he  did  not  know  it.  Driftwood,  like  thousands  of 
others,  tossed  up  on  the  shore  after  the  storm ;  lying 
there  bleached  and  useless  and  battered. 


GIGOLO  85 

Then,  one  day  in  Nice,  there  was  no  money.  Not 
a  franc.  Not  a  centime.  He  knew  hunger.  He 
knew  terror.  He  knew  desperation.  It  was  out 
of  this  period  that  there  emerged  Giddy,  the  gigolo. 
Now,  though,  the  name  bristled  with  accent  marks, 
thus:  Gedeon  Gore. 

This  Gedeon  Gore,  of  the  Nice  dansants,  did  not 
even  remotely  resemble  Gideon  Gory  of  Winnebago, 
Wisconsin.  This  Gedeon  Gore  wore  French  clothes 
of  the  kind  that  Giddy  Gory  had  always  despised. 
A  slim,  sallow,  sleek,  sad-eyed  gigolo  in  tight  French 
garments,  the  pants  rather  flappy  at  the  ankle; 
effeminate  French  shoes  with  fawn-coloured  uppers 
and  patent-leather  eyelets  and  vamps,  most  des 
picable;  a  slim  cane;  hair  with  a  magnificent  nat 
ural  wave  that  looked  artificially  marcelled  and 
that  was  worn  with  a  strip  growing  down  from  the 
temples  on  either  side  in  the  sort  of  cut  used  only 
by  French  dandies  and  English  stage  butlers.  No, 
this  was  not  Giddy  Gory.  The  real  Giddy  Gory  lay 
in  a  smart  but  battered  suitcase  under  the  narrow 
bed  in  his  lodgings.  The  suitcase  contained : 

Item ;  one  grey  tweed  suit  with  name  of  a  London 
tailor  inside. 

Item;  one  pair  Russia  calf  oxfords  of  American 
make. 

Item;  one  French  aviation  uniform  with  leather 
coat,  helmet,  and  gloves  all  bearing  stiff  and  curious 


86  GIGOLO 

splotches  of  brown  or  rust-colour  which  you  might 
not  recognize  as  dried  blood  stains. 

Item;  one  handful  assorted  medals,  ribbons,  or 
ders,  etc. 

All  Europe  was  dancing.  It  seemed  a  death 
dance,  grotesque,  convulsive,  hideous.  Paris,  Nice, 
Berlin,  Budapest,  Rome,  Vienna,  London  writhed 
and  twisted  and  turned  and  jiggled.  St.  Vitus  him 
self  never  imagined  contortions  such  as  these.  In 
the  narrow  side-street  dance  rooms  of  Florence, 
and  in  the  great  avenue  restaurants  of  Paris  they 
were  performing  exactly  the  same  gyrations — wig 
gle,  squirm,  shake.  And  over  all  the  American  jazz 
music  boomed  and  whanged  its  syncopation.  On  the 
music  racks  of  violinists  who  had  meant  to  be  Elmans 
or  Kreislers  were  sheets  entitled  Jazz  Baby  Fox 
Trot.  Drums,  horns,  cymbals,  castanets,  sand 
paper.  So  the  mannequins  and  marionettes  of  Europe 
tried  to  whirl  themselves  into  forgetfulness. 

The  Americans  thought  Giddy  was  a  French 
man.  The  French  knew  him  for  an  American,  dress 
as  he  would.  Dancing  became  with  him  a  profes 
sion — no,  a  trade.  He  danced  flawlessly,  holding 
and  guiding  his  partner  impersonally,  firmly,  ex 
pertly  in  spite  of  the  weak  right  arm — it  served 
well  enough.  Gideon  Gory  had  always  been  a  nat 
urally  rhythmic  dancer.  Then,  too,  he  had  been 
fond  of  dancing.  Years  of  practise  had  perfected 


GIGOLO  87 

him.  He  adopted  now  the  manner  and  position 
of  the  professional.  As  he  danced  he  held  his  head 
rather  stiffly  to  one  side,  and  a  little  down,  the  chin 
jutting  out  just  a  trifle.  The  effect  was  at  the  same 
time  stiff  and  chic.  His  footwork  was  infallible. 
The  intricate  and  imbecilic  steps  of  the  day  he 
performed  in  flawless  sequence.  Under  his  masterly 
guidance  the  feet  of  the  least  rhythmic  were  sud 
denly  endowed  with  deftness  and  grace.  One 
swayed  with  him  as  naturally  as  with  an  elemental 
force.  He  danced  politely  and  almost  wordlessly 
unless  first  addressed,  according  to  the  code  of  his 
kind.  His  touch  was  firm,  yet  remote.  The  dance 
concluded,  he  conducted  his  partner  to  her  seat, 
bowed  stiffly  from  the  waist,  heels  together,  and 
departed.  For  these  services  he  was  handed  ten 
francs,  twenty  francs,  thirty  francs,  or  more,  if 
lucky,  depending  on  the  number  of  times  he  was 
called  upon  to  dance  with  a  partner  during  the 
evening.  Thus  was  dancing,  the  most  spontaneous 
and  unartificial  of  the  Muses,  vulgarized,  commercial 
ized,  prostituted.  Lower  than  Gideon  Gory,  of  Win- 
nebago,  Wisconsin,  had  fallen,  could  no  man  fall. 

Sometimes  he  danced  in  Paris.  During  the  high 
season  he  danced  in  Nice.  Afternoon  and  evening 
found  him  busy  in  the  hot,  perfumed,  overcrowded 
dance  salons.  The  Negresco,  the  Ruhl,  Maxim's, 
Belle  Meuniere,  the  Casina  Municipale.  He  learned 


88  GIGOLO 

to  make  his  face  go  a  perfect  blank — pale,  cryptic, 
expressionless.  Between  himself  and  the  other 
boys  of  his  ilk  there  was  little  or  no  profes 
sional  comradeship.  A  weird  lot  they  were,  young, 
though  their  faces  were  strangely  lacking  in  the  look 
of  youth.  All  of  them  had  been  in  the  war.  Most 
of  them  had  been  injured.  There  was  Aubin,  the 
Frenchman.  The  left  side  of  Aubin's  face  was 
rather  startlingly  handsome  in  its  Greek  perfection. 
It  was  like  a  profile  chiselled.  The  left  side  was  an 
other  face — the  same,  and  yet  not  the  same.  It  was 
as  though  you  saw  the  left  side  out  of  drawing,  or 
blurred,  or  out  of  focus.  It  puzzled  you — shocked 
you.  The  left  side  of  Aubin's  face  had  been  done 
over  by  an  army  surgeon  who,  though  deft  and 
scientific,  had  not  had  a  hand  expert  as  that  of 
the  Original  Sculptor.  Then  there  was  Mazzetti, 
the  Roman.  He  parted  his  hair  on  the  wrong  side, 
and  under  the  black  wing  of  it  was  a  deep  groove 
into  which  you  could  lay  a  forefinger.  A  piece  of 
shell  had  plowed  it  neatly.  The  Russian  boy  who 
called  himself  Orloff  had  the  look  in  his  eyes  of 
one  who  has  seen  things  upon  which  eyes  never 
should  have  looked.  He  smoked  constantly  and 
ate,  apparentty,  not  at  all.  Among  these  there 
existed  a  certain  unwritten  code  and  certain  un 
written  signals. 

You  did  not  take  away  the  paying  partner  of 


GIGOLO  89 

a  fellow  gigolo.  If  in  too  great  demand  you  turned 
your  surplus  partners  over  to  gigolos  unemployed. 
You  did  not  accept  less  than  ten  francs  (they  all 
broke  this  rule).  Sometimes  Gedeon  Gore  made  ten 
francs  a  day,  sometimes  twenty,  sometimes  fifty, 
infrequently  a  hundred.  Sometimes  not  enough  to 
pay  for  his  one  decent  meal  a  day.  At  first  he 
tried  to  keep  fit  by  walking  a  certain  number  of 
miles  daily  along  the  ocean  front.  But  usually 
he  was  too  weary  to  persist  in  this.  He  did  not 
think  at  all.  He  felt  nothing.  Sometimes,  down 
deep,  deep  in  a  long-forgotten  part  of  his  being 
a  voice  called  feebly,  plaintively  to  the  man  who 
had  been  Giddy  Gory.  But  he  shut  his  ears  and 
mind  and  consciousness  and  would  not  listen. 

The  American  girls  were  best,  the  gigolos  all 
agreed,  and  they  paid  well,  though  they  talked  too 
much.  Gedeon  Gore  was  a  favourite  air.ong  them. 
They  thought  he  was  so  foreign  looking,  and  kind 
of  sad  and  stern  and  everything.  His  French, 
fluent,  colloquial,  and  bewildering,  awed  them.  They 
would  attempt  to  speak  to  him  in  halting  and  hack 
neyed  phrases  acquired  during  three  years  at  Miss 
Pence's  Select  School  at  Hastings-on-the-Hudson. 
At  the  cost  of  about  a  thousand  dollars  a  word 
they  would  enunciate,  painfully: 

"Je  pense  que — um — que  Nice  est  le  plus  belle — 
uh — ville  de  France" 


90  GIGOLO 

Giddy,  listening  courteously,  his  head  inclined  as 
though  unwilling  to  miss  one  conversational  pearl 
falling  from  the  pretty  American's  lips,  would  ap 
pear  to  consider  this  gravely.  Then,  sometimes  in 
an  unexpected  burst  of  pure  mischief,  he  would 
answer : 

"You  said  something !  Some  burg,  I'm  telling  the 
world." 

The  girl,  startled,  would  almost  leap  back  from 
the  confines  of  his  arms  only  to  find  his  face  stern, 
immobile,  his  eyes  sombre  and  reflective. 

"Why!     Where  did  you  pick  that  up?" 

His  eyebrows  would  go  up.  His  face  would  ex 
press  complete  lack  of  comprehension.  "Pardon?" 

Afterward,  at  home,  in  Toledo  or  Kansas  City 
or  Los  Angeles,  the  girl  would  tell  about  it.  "I 
suppose  some  American  girl  taught  it  to  him, 
just  for  fun.  It  sounded  too  queer — because  his 
French  was  so  wonderful.  He  danced  divinely.  A 
Frenchman,  and  so  aristocratic !  Think  of  his  being 
a  professional  partner.  They  have  them  over  there, 
you  know.  Everybody's  dancing  in  Europe.  And 
gay !  Why,  you'd  never  know  there'd  been  a  war." 

Mary  Hubbell,  of  the  Winnebago  Hubbells,  did 
not  find  it  so  altogether  gay.  Mary  Hubbell,  with 
her  father,  Orson  J.  Hubbell,  and  her  mother,  Bee 
Hubbell,  together  with  what  appeared  to  be  prac 
tically  the  entire  white  population  of  the  United 


GIGOLO  91 

States,  came  to  Europe  early  in  1922,  there  to 
travel,  to  play,  to  rest,  to  behold,  and  to  turn  their 
good  hard  American  dollars  into  cordwood-size  bun 
dles  of  German  marks,  Austrian  kronen,  Italian 
lires,  and  French  francs.  Most  of  the  men  regarded 
Europe  as  a  wine  list.  In  their  mental  geography 
Rheims,  Rhine,  Moselle,  Bordeaux,  Champagne,  or 
Wiirzburg  were  not  localities  but  libations.  The 
women,  for  the  most  part,  went  in  for  tortoise-shell 
combs,  fringed  silk  shawls,  jade  earrings,  beaded 
bags,  and  coral  neck  chains.  Up  and  down  the 
famous  thoroughfare  of  Europe  went  the  absurd 
pale  blue  tweed  tailleurs  and  the  lavender  tweed 
cape  suits  of  America's  wives  and  daughters. 
Usually,  after  the  first  month  or  two,  they  shed  these 
respectable,  middle-class  habiliments  for  what  they 
fondly  believed  to  be  smart  Paris  costumes;  and 
you  could  almost  invariably  tell  a  good,  moral, 
church-going  matron  of  the  Middle  West  by  the 
fact  that  she  was  got  up  like  a  demimondaine  of  the 
second  class,  in  the  naive  belief  that  she  looked 
French  and  chic. 

The  three  Hubbells  were  thoroughly  nice  people. 
Mary  Hubbell  was  more  than  thoroughly  nice.  She 
was  a  darb.  She  had  done  a  completely  good  job 
during  the  1918-1918  period,  including  the  expert 
driving  of  a  wild  and  unbroken  Ford  up  and  down 
the  shell-torn  roads  of  France.  One  of  those  small- 


92  GIGOLO 

town  girls  with  a  big-town  outlook,  a  well-trained 
mind,  a  slim  boyish  body,  a  good  clear  skin,  and  a 
steady  eye  that  saw.  Mary  Hubbell  wasn't  a 
beauty  by  a  good  many  measurements,  but  she  had 
her  points,  as  witness  the  number  of  bouquets, 
bundles,  books,  and  bon-bons  piled  in  her  cabin  when 
she  sailed. 

The  well-trained  mind  and  the  steady  seeing  eye 
enabled  Mary  Hubbell  to  discover  that  Europe 
wasn't  so  gay  as  it  seemed  to  the  blind;  and  she 
didn't  write  home  to  the  effect  that  you'd  never 
know  there'd  been  war. 

The  Hubbells  had  the  best  that  Europe  could 
afford.  Orson  J.  Hubbell,  a  mild-mannered,  grey- 
haired  man  with  a  nice  flat  waist-line  and  a  good 
keen  eye  (hence  Mary's)  adored  his  women-folk  and 
spoiled  them.  During  the  first  years  of  his  married 
life  he  had  been  Hubbell,  the  drayman,  as  Giddy 
Gory  had  said.  He  had  driven  one  of  his  three 
drays  himself,  standing  sturdily  in  the  front  of 
the  red-painted  wooden  two-horse  wagon  as  it  rat 
tled  up  and  down  the  main  business  thoroughfare  of 
Winnebago.  But  the  war  and  the  soaring  freight- 
rates  had  dealt  generously  with  Orson  Hubbell.  As 
railroad  and  shipping  difficulties  increased  the  Hub- 
bell  draying  business  waxed  prosperous.  Factories, 
warehouses,  and  wholesale  business  firms  could  be 
assured  that  their  goods  would  arrive  promptly, 


GIGOLO  93 

safely,  and  cheaply  when  conveyed  by  a  Hubbell  van. 
So  now  the  three  red-painted  wooden  horse-driven 
drays  were  magically  transformed  into  a  great  fleet 
of  monster  motor  vans  that  plied  up  and  down  the 
state  of  Wisconsin  and  even  into  Michigan  and  Il 
linois  and  Indiana.  The  Orson  J.  Hubbell  Trans 
portation  Company,  you  read.  And  below,  in  yel 
low  lettering  on  the  red  background : 

Have  HUBBELL  Do  Your  HAULING. 

There  was  actually  a  million  in  it,  and  more  to 
come.  The  buying  of  the  old  Gory  house  on  the 
river  bluff  had  been  one  of  the  least  of  Orson's  feats. 
And  now  that  house  was  honeycombed  with  sleeping 
porches  and  linen  closets  and  enamel  fittings  and 
bathrooms  white  and  glittering  as  an  operating 
auditorium.  And  there  were  shower  baths,  and  blue 
rugs,  and  great  soft  fuzzy  bath  towels  and  little 
white  innocent  guest  towels  embroidered  with  curly 
H's  whose  tails  writhed  at  you  from  all  corners. 

Orson  J.  and  Mrs.  Hubbell  had  never  been  in 
Europe  before,  and  they  enjoyed  themselves  enor 
mously.  That  is  to  say,  Mrs.  Orson  J.  did,  and 
Orson,  seeing  her  happy,  enjoyed  himself  vicariously. 
His  hand  slid  in  and  out  of  his  inexhaustible  pocket 
almost  automatically  now.  And  "How  much?" 
was  his  favourite  locution.  They  went  everywhere, 
did  everything.  Mary  boasted  a  pretty  fair  French. 


94  GIGOLO 

Mrs.  Hubbell  conversed  in  the  various  languages, 
of  Europe  by  speaking  pidgin  English  very  loud, 
and  omitting  all  verbs,  articles,  adverbs,  and  other 
cumbersome  superfluities.  Thus,  to  the  file  de 
chambre. 

"Me  out  now  you  beds."  The  red-cheeked  one 
from  the  provinces  understood,  in  some  miraculous 
way,  that  Mrs.  Hubbell  was  now  going  out  and  that 
the  beds  could  be  made  and  the  rooms  tidied. 

They  reached  Nice  in  February  and  plunged  into 
its  gaieties.  "Just  think!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hub- 
bell  rapturously,  "only  three  francs  for  a  facial 
or  a  manicure  and  two  for  a  marcel.  It's  like  find 
ing  them." 

"If  the  Mediterranean  gets  any  bluer,"  said  Mary, 
"I  don't  think  I  can  stand  it,  it's'so  lovely." 

Mrs.  Hubbell,  at  tea,  expressed  a  desire  to  dance. ' 
Mary,  at  tea,  desired  to  dance  but  didn't  express 
it.  Orson  J.  loathed  tea;  and  the  early  draying 
business  had  somewhat  unfitted  his  sturdy  legs  for 
the  lighter  movements  of  the  dance.  But  he  wanted 
only  their  happiness.  So  he  looked  about  a  bit, 
and  asked  some  questions,  and  came  back. 

"Seems  there's  a  lot  of  young  chaps  who  make 
a  business  of  dancing  with  the  women-folks  who 
haven't  dancing  men  along.  Hotel  hires  'em.  Funny 
to  us  but  I  guess  it's  all  right,  and  quite  the  thing 
around  here.  You  pay  'em  so  much  a  dance, 


GIGOLO  95 

or  so  much  an  afternoon.  You  girls  want  to  try 
it?" 

"I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Orson  J.  Hubbell.  "It  doesn't 
sound  respectable.  Then  that's  what  all  those  thin 
little  chaps  are  who  have  been  dancing  with  those 
pretty  American  girls.  They're  sort  of  ratty  look 
ing,  aren't  they?  What  do  they  call  'em?  That's 
a  nice-looking  one,  over  there — no,  no! — dancing 
with  the  girl  in  grey,  I  mean.  If  that's  one  I'd 
like  to  dance  with  him,  Orson.  Good  land,  what 
would  the  Winnebago  ladies  say!  What  do  they 
call  'em,  I  wonder." 

Mary  had  been  gazing  very  intently  at  the  nice- 
looking  one  over  there  who  was  dancing  with  the 
girl  in  grey.  She  answered  her  mother's  question, 
still  gazing  at  him.  "They  call  them  gigolos,"  she 
said,  slowly.  Then,  "Get  that  one  Dad,  will  you, 
if  you  can?  You  dance  with  him  first,  Mother,  and 
then  I'll " 

"I  can  get  two,"  volunteered  Orson  J. 

"No,"  said  Mary  Hubbell,  sharply. 

The  nice-looking  gigolo  seemed  to  be  in  great 
demand,  but  Orson  J.  succeeded  in  capturing  him 
after  the  third  dance.  It  turned  out  to  be  a  tango, 
and  though  Mrs.  Hubbell,  pretty  well  scared,  de 
clared  that  she  didn't  know  it  and  couldn't  dance  it, 
the  nice-looking  gigolo  assured  her,  through  the 
medium  of  Mary's  interpretation,  that  Mrs.  Hubbell 


96  GIGOLO 

had  only  to  follow  his  guidance.  It  was  quite  simple. 
He  did  not  seem  to  look  directly  at  Mary,  or  at 
Orson  J.  or  at  Mrs.  Hubbell,  as  he  spoke.  The 
dance  concluded,  Mrs.  Hubbell  came  back  breath 
less,  but  enchanted. 

"He  has  beautiful  manners,"  she  said,  aloud,  in 
English.  "And  dance!  You  feel  like  a  swan  when 
you're  dancing  with  him.  Try  him,  Mary."  The 
gigolo's  face,  as  he  bowed  before  her,  was  impassive, 
inscrutable. 

But,  "Sh !"  said  Mary. 

"Nonsense !     Doesn't  understand  a  word." 

Mary  danced  the  next  dance  with  him.  They 
danced  wordlessly  until  the  dance  was  half  over. 
Then,  abruptly,  Mary  said  in  English,  "What's 
your  name?" 

Close  against  him  she  felt  a  sudden  little  sharp 
contraction  of  the  gigolo's  diaphragm — the  contrac 
tion  that  reacts  to  surprise  or  alarm.  But  he 
said,  in  French,  "Pardon?" 

So,  "What's  your  name?"  said  Mary,  in  French 
this  time. 

The  gigolo  with  the  beautiful  manners  hesitated 
longer  than  really  beautiful  manners  should  permit. 
But  finally,  "Je  m'appelle  Gedeon  Gore."  He  pro 
nounced  it  in  his  most  nasal,  perfect  Paris  French. 
It  didn't  sound  even  remotely  like  Gideon  Gory. 

"My  name's  Hubbell,"  said  Mary,  in  her  pretty 


GIGOLO  97 

fair  French.  "Mary  Hubbell.  I  come  from  a  little 
town  called  Winnebago." 

The  Gore  eyebrow  expressed  polite  disinterested 
ness. 

"That's  in  Wisconsin,"  continued  Mary,  "and  I 
love  it." 

"Naturellement,"  agreed  the  gigolo,  stiffly. 

The}'  finished  the  dance  without  further  conversa 
tion.  Mrs.  Hubbell  had  the  next  dance.  Mary 
i  the  next.  They  spent  the  afternoon  dancing,  until 
dinner  time.  Orson  J.'s  fee,  as  he  handed  it 
to  the  gigolo,  was  the  kind  that  mounted  grandly 
into  dollars  instead  of  mere  francs.  The  gigolo's 
face,  as  he  took  it,  was  Tiot  more  inscrutable  than 
Mary's  as  she  watched  him  take  it. 

From  that  afternoon,  throughout  the  next  two 
weeks,  if  any  girl  as  thoroughly  fine  as  Mary  Hub- 
bell  could  be  said  to  run  after  any  man,  Mary  ran 
after  that  gigolo.  At  the  same  time  one  could  almost 
have  said  that  he  tried  to  avoid  her.  Mary  took  a 
course  of  tango  lessons,  and  urged  her  mother  to 
do  the  same.  Even  Orson  J.  noticed  it. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  in  kindly  protest.  "Aren't 
you  getting  pretty  thick  with  this  jigger?" 

"Sociological  study,  Dad.      I'm  all  right." 

"Yeh,  you're  all  right.     But  how  about  him?" 

"He's  all  right,  too." 

The  gigolo  resisted  Mary's  unmaidenly  advances, 


98  GIGOLO 

and  yet,  when  he  was  with  her,  he  seemed  sometimes 
to  forget  to  look  sombre  and  blank  and  remote. 
They  seemed  to  have  a  lot  to  say  to  each  other.  Mary 
talked  about  America  a  good  deal.  About  her  home 
town  .  .  .  "and  big  elms  and  maples  and  oaks 
in  the  yard  .  .  .  the  Fox  River  valley  .  .  . 
Middle  West  .  .  .  Normal  Avenue  .  .  . 
Cass  Street  .  .  .  Fox  River  paper  mills  .  .  ." 

She  talked  in  French  and  English.  The  gigolo 
confessed,  one  day,  to  understanding  some  English, 
though  he  seemed  to  speak  none.  After  that  Mary, 
when  very  much  in  earnest,  or  when  enthusiastic, 
spoke  in  her  native  tongue  altogether.  She  claimed 
an  intense  interest  in  European  after-war  condi 
tions,  in  reconstruction,  in  the  attitude  toward  life 
of  those  millions  of  young  men  who  had  actually 
participated  in  the  conflict.  She  asked  questions 
that  might  have  been  considered  impertinent,  not  to 
say  nervy. 

"Now  you,"  she  said,  brutally,  "are  a  person  of 
some  education,  refinement,  and  background.  Yet 
you  are  content  to  dance  around  in  these — these — 
well,  back  home  a  chap  might  wash  dishes  in  a  cheap 
restaurant  or  run  an  elevator  in  an  east  side  New 
York  loft  building,  but  he'd  never " 

A  very  faint  dull  red  crept  suddenly  over  the 
pallor  of  the  gigolo's  face.  They  were  sitting  out 
on  a  bench  on  the  promenade,  facing  the  ocean  (in 


GIGOLO  99 

direct  defiance  on  Mary's  part  of  all  rules  of  con 
duct  of  respectable  girls  toward  gigolos).  Mary 
Hubbell  had  said  rather  brusque  things  before.  But 
now,  for  the  first  time,  the  young  man  defended  him 
self  faintly. 

"For  us,"  he  replied  in  his  exquisite  French,  "it 
is  finished.  For  us  there  is  nothing.  This  genera 
tion,  it  is  no  good.  I  am  no  good.  They  are  no 
good."  He  waved  a  hand  in  a  gesture  that  included 
the  promenaders,  the  musicians  in  the  cafes,  the 
dancers,  the  crowds  eating  and  drinking  at  the  little 
tables  lining  the  walk. 

"What  rot!"  said  Mary  Hubbell,  briskly.  "They 
probably  said  exactly  the  same  thing  in  Asia  after 
Alexander  had  got  through  with  'em.  I  suppose 
there  was  such  dancing  and  general  devilment  in 
Macedonia  that  every  one  said  the  younger  genera 
tion  had  gone  to  the  dogs  since  the  war,  and  the 
world  would  never  amount  to  anything  again.  But 
it  seemed  to  pick  up,  didn't  it?" 

The  boy  turned  and  looked  at  her  squarely  for  the 
first  time,  his  eyes  meeting  hers.  Mary  looked  at 
him.  She  even  swayed  toward  him  a  little,  her 
lips  parted.  There  was  about  her  a  breathlessness, 
an  expectancy.  So  they  sat  for  a  moment,  and  be 
tween  them  the  air  was  electric,  vibrant.  Then, 
slowly,  he  relaxed,  sat  back,  slumped  a  little  on  the 
bench.  Over  his  face,  that  for  a  moment  had  been 


100  GIGOLO 

alight  with  something  vital,  there  crept  again  the 
look  of  defeat,  of  sombre  indifference.  At  sight  of 
that  look  Mary  Hubbell's  jaw  set.  She  leaned  for 
ward.  She  clasped  her  fine  large  hands  tight.  She 
did  not  look  at  the  gigolo,  but  out,  across  the  blue 
Mediterranean,  and  beyond  it.  Her  voice  was  low 
and  a  little  tremulous  and  she  spoke  in  English  only. 
"It  isn't  finished  here — here  in  Europe.  But  it's 
sick.  Back  home,  in  America,  though,  it's  alive. 
Alive!  And  growing.  I  wish  I  could  make  you 
understand  what  it's  like  there.  It's  all  new,  and 
crude,  maybe,  and  ugly,  but  it's  so  darned  healthy 
and  sort  of  clean.  I  love  it.  I  love  every  bit  of  it. 
I  know  I  sound  like  a  flag-waver  but  I  don't  care. 
I  mean  it.  And  I  know  it's  sentimental,  but  I'm 
proud  of  it.  The  kind  of  thing  I  feel  about  the 
United  States  is  the  kind  of  thing  Mencken  sneers 
at.  You  don't  know  who  Mencken  is.  He's  a  critic 
who  pretends  to  despise  everything  because  he's 
really  a  sentimentalist  and  afraid  somebody'll  find 
it  out.  I  don't  say  I  don't  appreciate  the  beauty 
of  all  this  Italy  and  France  and  England  and  Ger 
many.  But  it  doesn't  get  me  the  way  just  the  men 
tion  of  a  name  will  get  me  back  home.  This  trip,  for 
example.  Why,  last  summer  four  of  us — three 
other  girls  and  I — motored  from  Wisconsin  to  Cali 
fornia,  and  we  drove  every  inch  of  the  way  ourselves. 
The  Santa  Fe  Trail!  The  Ocean-to-Ocean  High- 


GIGOLO  101 

way !  The  Lincoln  Highway !  The  Dixie  Highway ! 
The  Yellowstone  Trail !  The  very  £o.un»l  of  tiiose 
words  gives  me  a  sort  of  prickly  feeling.  They  mean 
something  so  big  and  vital  and  new.  I  get  a  thrill 
out  of  them  that  I  haven't  had  once  over  here. 
Why  even  this,"  she  threw  out  a  hand  that  included 
and  dismissed  the  whole  sparkling  panorama  before 
her,  "this  doesn't  begin  to  give  the  jolt  that  I  got 
out  of  Walla  Walla,  and  Butte,  and  Missoula,  and 
Spokane,  and  Seattle,  and  Albuquerque.  We  drove 
all  day,  and  ate  ham  and  eggs  at  some  little  hotel 
or  lunch-counter  at  night,  and  outside  the  hotel 
the  drummers  would  be  sitting,  talking  and  smok 
ing;  and  there  were  Western  men,  very  tanned  and 
tall  and  lean,  in  those  big  two-gallon  hats  and  khaki 
pants  and  puttees.  And  there  were  sunsets,  and  sand, 
and  cactus  and  mountains,  and  campers  and  Fords. 
I  can  smell  the  Kansas  corn  fields  and  I  can  see  the 
Iowa  farms  and  the  ugly  little  raw  American  towns, 
and  the  big  thin  American  men,  and  the  grain  eleva 
tors  near  the  railroad  stations,  and  I  know  those 
towns  weren't  the  way  towns  ought  to  look.  They 
were  ugly  and  crude  and  new.  Maybe  it  wasn't  all 
beautiful,  but  gosh !  it  was  real,  and  growing,  and  big 
and  alive !  Alive !" 

Mary  Hubbell  was  crying.  There,  on  the  bench 
along  the  promenade  in  the  sunshine  at  Nice,  she 
was  crying. 


102  GIGOLO 

The, boy  beside  her  suddenly  rose,  uttered  a  little 
inarticulate  sound,  and  left  her  there  on  the  bench 
in  the  sunshine.  Vanished,  completely,  in  the  crowd,  j 

For  three  days  the  Orson  J.  Hubbells  did  not  see 
their  favourite  gigolo.  If  Mary  was  disturbed  she 
did  not  look  it,  though  her  eye  wras  alert  in  the 
throng.  During  the  three  days  of  their  gigolo's 
absence  Mrs.  Hubbell  and  Mary  availed  themselves 
of  the  professional  services  of  the  Italian  gigolo 
Mazzetti.  Mrs.  Hubbell  said  she  thought  his  danc 
ing  was,  if  anything,  more  nearly  perfect  than  that 
What's-his-name,  but  his  manner  wasn't  so  nice  and 
she  didn't  like  his  eyes.  Sort  of  sneaky.  Mary 
said  she  thought  so,  too. 

Nevertheless  she  was  undoubtedly  affable  toward 
him,  and  talked  (in  French)  and  laughed  and  even 
walked  with  him,  apparently  in  complete  ignorance 
of  the  fact  that  these  things  were  not  done.  Maz 
zetti  spoke  frequently  of  his  colleague,  Gore,  and  al 
ways  in  terms  of  disparagement.  A  low  fellow.  A 
clumsy  dancer.  One  unworthy  of  Mary's  swanlike 
grace.  Unfit  to  receive  Orson  J.  Hubbell's  generous 
fees. 

Late  one  evening,  during  the  mid-week  after-din 
ner  dance,  Gore  appeared  suddenly  in  the  doorway. 
It  was  ten  o'clock.  The  Hubbells  were  dallying 
with  their  after-dinner  coffee  at  one  of  the  small 
tables  about  the  dance  floor. 


GIGOLO  103 

Mary,  keen-eyed,  saw  him  first.  She  beckoned 
Mazzetti  who  stood  in  attendance  beside  Mrs.  Hub- 
bell's  chair.  She  snatched  up  the  wrap  that  lay 
at  hand  and  rose.  "It's  stifling  in  here.  I'm  going 
out  on  the  Promenade  for  a  breath  of  air.  Come 
on."  She  plucked  at  Mazzetti's  sleeve  and  actually 
propelled  him  through  the  crowd  and  out  of  the 
room.  She  saw  Gore's  startled  eyes  follow  them. 

She  even  saw  him  crossing  swiftly  to  where  her 
mother  and  father  sat.  Then  she  vanished  into  the 
darkness  with  Mazzetti.  And  the  Mazzettis  put  but 
one  interpretation  upon  a  young  woman  who  strolls 
into  the  soft  darkness  of  the  Promenade  with  a 
gigolo. 

And  Mary  Hubbell  knew  this. 

Gedeon  Gore  stood  before  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Orson  J. 
Hubbell.  "Where  is  your  daughter?"  he  demanded, 
in  French. 

"Oh,  howdy-do,"  chirped  Mrs.  Hubbell.  "Well, 
it's  Mr.  Gore !  We  missed  you.  I  hope  you  haven't 
been  sick." 

"Where  is  your  daughter?"  demanded  Gedeon 
Gore,  in  French.  "Where  is  Mary  ?" 

Mrs.  Hubbell  caught  the  word  Mary.  "Oh,  Mary. 
Why,  she's  gone  out  for  a  walk  with  Mr.  Mazzetti." 

"Good  God !"  said  Gedeon  Gore,  in  perfectly  plain 
English.  And  vanished. 

Orson  J.  Hubbell  sat  a  moment,  thinking.      Then, 


104  GIGOLO 

"Why,  say,  ho  talked  English.  That  young  French 
fella  talked  English." 

The  young  French  fella,  hatless,  v/as  skimming 
down  the  Promenade  des  Anglais,  looking  intently 
ahead,  and  behind,  and  to  the  side,  and  all  around  in 
the  darkness.  He  seemed  to  be  following  a  certain 
trail,  however.  At  one  side  of  the  great  wide  walk, 
facing  the  ocean,  was  a  canopied  bandstand.  In  its 
dim  shadow,  he  discerned  a  wisp  of  white.  He  made 
for  it,  swiftly,  silently.  Mazzetti's  voice  low,  eager, 
insistent.  Mazzetti's  voice  hoarse,  ugly,  importu 
nate.  The  figure  in  white  rose.  Gore  stood  before 
the  two.  The  girl  took  a  step  toward  him,  but  Maz- 
zetti  took  two  steps  and  snarled  like  a  villain  in  a 
movie,  if  a  villain  in  a  movie  could  be  heard  to 
snarl. 

"Get  out  of  here!"  said  Mazzetti,  in  French,  to 
Gore.  "You  pig !  Swine !  To  intrude  when  I  talk  with 
a  lady.  You  are  finished.  Now  she  belongs  to  me." 

"The  hell  she  does !"  said  Giddy  Gory  in  perfectly 
plain  American  and  swung  for  Mazzetti  with  his  bad 
right  arm.  Mazzetti,  after  the  fashion  of  his  kind, 
let  fly  in  most  unsportsmanlihe  fashion  with  his  feet, 
kicking  at  Giddy's  stomach  and  trying  to  bite  with 
his  small  sharp  yellow  teeth.  And  then  Giddy's 
left,  that  had  learned  some  neat  tricks  of  boxing 
in  the  days  of  the  Gory  greatness,  landed  fairly 
on  the  Mazzetti  nose.  And  with  a  howl  of  pain  and 


GIGOLO  105 

rage  and  terror  the  Mazzetti,  a  hand  clapped  to  that 
bleeding  feature,  fled  in  the  darkness. 

And,  "O,  Giddy!"  said  Mary,  "I  thought  you'd 
never  come." 

"Mary.  Mary  Hubbell.  Did  you  know  all  the 
time?  You  did,  didn't  you?  You  think  I'm  a  bum, 
don't  you?  Don't  you?" 

Her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Giddy,  I've  been  stuck 
on  you  since  I  was  nine  years  old,  in  Winnebago.  I 
kept  track  of  you  all  through  the  war,  though  I 
never  once  saw  you.  Then  I  lost  you.  Giddy,  when 
I  was  a  kid  I  used  to  look  at  you  from  the  sidewalk 
through  the  hedge  of  the  house  on  Cass.  Honestly. 
Honestly,  Giddy." 

"But  look  at  me  now.  Why,  Mary,  I'm — I'm 
no  good.  Why,  I  don't  see  how  you  ever  knew " 

"It  takes  more  than  a  new  Greek  nose  and  French 
clothes  and  a  bum  arm  to  fool  me,  Gid.  Do  you 
know,  there  were  a  lot  of  photographs  of  you  left 
up  in  the  attic  of  the  Cass  Street  house  when  we 
bought  it.  I  know  them  all  by  heart,  Giddy.  By 
heart.  .  .  ,  Come  on  home,  Giddy.  Let's  go 
home," 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE 

AY  ONE  old  enough  to  read  this  is  old  enough 
to  remember  that  favourite  heroine  of  fiction 
who  used  to  start  her  day  by  rising  from  her 
couch,  flinging  wide  her  casement,  leaning  out  and 
breathing  deep  the  perfumed  morning  air.  You  will 
recall,  too,  the  pure  white  rose  clambering  at  the 
side  of  the  casement,  all  jewelled  with  the  dew  of 
dawn.  This  the  lady  plucked  carolling.  Daily  she 
plucked  it.  A  hardy  perennial  if  ever  there  was  one. 
Subsequently,  pressing  it  to  her  lips,  she  flung  it 
into  the  garden  below,  where  stood  her  lover  (like 
wise  an  early  riser). 

Romantic  proceeding  this,  but  unhygienic  when 
you  consider  that  her  rush  for  the  closed  casement 
was  doubtless  due  to  the  fact  that  her  bedroom,  her 
metically  sealed  during  the  night,  must  have  grown 
pretty  stuffy  by  morning.  Her  complexion  was 
probably  bad. 

No  such  id3'llic  course  marked  the  matin  of  our 
heroine.  Her  day's  beginning  differed  from  the 
above  in  practically  every  detail.  Thus: 

A — When  Harrietta  rose  from  her  couch  (cream 
106 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     107 

enamel,  full-sized  bed  with  double  hair  mattress  and 
box  springs)  she  closed  her  casement  with  a  bang, 
having  slept  in  a  gale  that  swept  her  two-room-and- 
kitchenette  apartment  on  the  eleventh  floor  in  Fifty- 
sixth  Street. 

B — She  never  leaned  out  except,  perhaps,  to  flap 
a  dust  rag,  because  lean  as  she  might,  defying  the 
laws  of  gravity  and  the  house  superintendent,  she 
could  have  viewed  nothing  more  than  roofs  and  sky 
and  chimneys  where  already  roofs  and  sky  and  chim 
neys  filled  the  eye  (unless  you  consider  that  by 
screwing  around  and  flattening  one  ear  and  the 
side  of  your  jaw  against  the  window  jamb  you  could 
almost  get  a  glimpse  of  distant  green  prominently 
mentioned  in  the  agent's  ad  as  "unexcelled  view  of 
Park"). 

C — The  morning  air  wasn't  perfumed  for  purposes 
of  breathing  deep,  being  New  York  morning  air, 
richly  laden  with  the  smell  of  warm  asphalt,  smoke, 
gas,  and,  when  the  wind  was  right,  the  glue  factory 
on  the  Jersey  shore  across  the  river. 

D — She  didn't  pluck  a  rose,  carolling,  because 
even  if,  by  some  magic  Burbankian  process,  Jack's 
bean-stalk  had  been  made  rose-bearing  it  would 
have  been  hard  put  to  it  to  reach  this  skyscraper 
home. 

E — If  she  had  flung  it,  it  probably  would  have 
ended  its  eleven-story  flight  in  the  hand  cart  of 


108  GIGOLO 

Messinger's  butcher  boy,  who  usually  made  his  first 
Fifty-sixth  Street  delivery  at  about  that  time. 

F — The  white  rose  would  not  have  been  jewelled 
and  sparkling  with  the  dews  of  dawn,  anyway,  as 
at  Harrietta's  rising  hour  (between  10.30  and  11.30 
A.  M.)  the  New  York  City  dews,  if  any,  have  left  for 
the  day. 

Spartans  who  rise  regularly  at  the  chaste  hour  of 
seven  will  now  regard  Harrietta  with  disapproval. 
These  should  be  told  that  Harrietta  never  got  to 
bed  before  twelve-thirty  nor  to  sleep  before  two- 
thirty,  which,  on  an  eight-hour  sleep  count,  should 
even  things  up  somewhat  in  their  minds.  They  must 
know,  too,  that  in  one  corner  of  her  white-and-blue 
bathroom  reposed  a  pair  of  wooden  dumb-bells,  their 
ankles  neatly  crossed.  She  used  them  daily.  Also 
she  bathed,  massaged,  exercised,  took  facial  and 
electric  treatments ;  worked  like  a  slave ;  lived  like 
an  athlete  in  training  in  order  to  preserve  her  hair, 
skin,  teeth,  and  figure;  almost  never  ate  what  she 
wanted  nor  as  much  as  she  liked. 

That  earlier  lady  of  the  closed  casement  and  the 
white  rose  probably  never  even  heard  of  a  denti 
frice  or  a  cold  shower. 

The  result  of  Harrietta's  rigours  was  that  now,  at 
thirty-seven,  she  could  pass  for  twenty-seven  on 
Fifth  Avenue  at  five  o'clock  (flesh-pink,  single-mesh 
face  veil)  ;  twenty-five  at  a  small  dinner  (rose-col- 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE    109 

oured  shades  over  the  candles),  and  twenty-two, 
easily,  behind  the  amber  footlights. 

You  will  have  guessed  that  Harrietta,  the  Hero 
ine,  is  none  other  than  Harrietta  Fuller,  deftest  of 
comediennes,  whom  you  have  seen  in  one  or  all  of 
those  slim  little  plays  in  which  she  has  made  a  name 
but  no  money  to  speak  of,  being  handicapped  for 
the  American  stage  by  her  intelligence  and  her 
humour  sense,  and,  as  she  would  tell  you,  by  her 
very  name  itself. 

"Harrietta  Fuller!  Don't  you  see  what  I  mean?" 
she  would  say.  "In  the  first  place,  it's  hard  to  re 
member.  And  it  lacks  force.  Or  maybe  rhythm. 
It  doesn't  clink.  It  sort  of  humps  in  the  middle. 
A  name  should  flow.  Take  a  name  like  Barrymore 
— or  Bernhardt — or  Duse — you  can't  forget  them. 
Oh,  I'm  not  comparing  myself  to  them.  Don't  be 
funny.  I  just  mean — why,  take  Harrietta  alone. 
It's  deadly.  A  Thackeray  miss,  all  black  silk  mitts 
and  white  cotton  stockings.  Long  ago,  in  the  be 
ginning,  I  thought  of  shortening  it.  But  Harriet 
Fuller  sounds  like  a  school-teacher,  doesn't  it?  And 
Hattie  Fuller  makes  me  think,  somehow,  of  a  bur 
lesque  actress.  You  know.  'Hattie  Fuller  and  Her 
Bouncing  Belles.'  " 

At  thirty-seven  Harrietta  Fuller  had  been  fifteen 
years  on  the  stage.  She  had  little  money,  a  small 
stanch  following,  an  exquisite  technique,  and  her 


110  GIGOLO 

fur  coat  was  beginning  to  look  gnawed  around  the 
edges.  People  even  said  maddeningly:  "Harrietta 
Fuller?  I  saw  her  when  I  was  a  kid,  years  ago. 
Why,  she  must  be  le'see — ten — twelve — why,  she 
must  be  going  on  pretty  close  to  forty." 

A  worshipper  would  defend  her.  "You're  crazy! 
I  saw  her  last  month  when  she  was  playing  in  Cin 
cinnati,  and  she  doesn't  look  a  day  over  twenty-one. 
That's  a  cute  play  she's  in — There  and  Back.  Not 
much  to  it,  but  she's  so  kind  and  natural.  Made  me 
think  of  Jen  a  little." 

That  was  part  of  Harrietta's  art — making  people 
think  of  Jen.  Watching  her,  they  would  whisper: 
"Look!  Isn't  that  Jen  all  over?  The  way  she 
sits  there  and  looks  up  at  him  while  she's  sewing." 

Harrietta  Fuller  could  take  lines  that  were  stilted 
and  shoddy  and  speak  them  in  a  way  to  make  them 
sound  natural  and  distinctive  and  real.  She  was 
a  clear  blonde,  but  her  speaking  voice  had  in  it  a 
contralto  note  that  usually  accompanies  brunette 
colouring. 

It  surprised  and  gratified  you,  that  tone,  as  does 
mellow  wine  when  you  have  expected  cider.  She 
could  walk  on  to  one  of  those  stage  library  sets  that 
reek  of  the  storehouse  and  the  property  carpenter, 
seat  herself,  take  up  a  book  or  a  piece  of  handiwork, 
and  instantly  the  absurd  room  became  a  human, 
livable  place.  She  had  a  knack  of  sitting,  not  as  an 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     111 

actress  ordinarily  seats  herself  in  a  drawing  room — 
feet  carefully  strained  to  show  the  high  arch,  body 
posed  to  form  a  "line" — but  easily,  as  a  woman  sits 
in  her  own  house.  If  you  saw  her  in  the  supper  scene 
of  My  Mistake,  you  will  remember  how  she  twisted 
her  feet  about  the  rungs  of  the  straight  little  chair 
in  which  she  sat.  Her  back  was  toward  the  audience 
throughout  the  scene,  according  to  stage  directions, 
yet  she  managed  to  convey  embarrassment,  fright, 
terror,  determination,  decision  in  the  agonized  twist 
ing  of  those  expressive  feet. 

Authors  generally  claimed  these  bits  of  business  as 
having  originated  with  them.  For  that  matter,  she 
was  a  favourite  with  playwrights,  as  well  she  might 
be,  considering  the  vitality  which  she  injected  into 
their  hackneyed  situations.  Every  little  while  some 
young  writer,  fired  by  an  inflection  in  her  voice  or 
a  nuance  in  her  comedy,  would  rush  back  stage  to 
tell  her  that  she  never  had  had  a  part  worthy  of  her, 
and  that  he  would  now  come  to  her  rescue.  Some 
times  he  kept  his  word,  and  Harrietta,  six  months 
later,  would  look  up  from  the  manuscript  to  say: 
"This  is  delightful !  It's  what  I've  been  looking  for 
for  years.  The  deftness  of  the  comedy.  And  that 
little  scene  with  the  gardener !" 

But  always,  after  the  managers  had  finished  sug 
gesting  bits  that  would  brighten  it  up,  and  changes 
that  would  put  it  over  with  the  Western  buyers, 


112  GIGOLO 

Harrietta  would  regard  the  mutilated  manuscript 
sorrowingly.  "But  I  can't  play  this  now,  you  know. 

It  isn't  the  same  part  at  all.  It's — forgive  me 

vulgar." 

Then  some  little  red-haired  ingenue  would  get  it, 
and  it  would  run  a  solid  year  on  Broadway  and  two 
seasons  on  the  road,  and  in  all  that  time  Harrietta 
would  have  played  six  months,  perhaps,  in  three  dif 
ferent  plays,  in  all  of  which  she  would  score  what 
is  known  as  a  "personal  success."  A  personal  suc 
cess  usually  means  bad  business  at  the  box  office. 

Now  this  is  immensely  significant.  In  the  adver 
tisements  of  the  play  in  which  Harrietta  Fuller  might 
be  appearing  you  never  read  : 

HARRIETTA  FULLER 

In 

Thus  and  So 
No.     It  was  always : 

THUS    AND    SO 

With 
Harrietta  Fuller 

Between  those  two  prepositions  lies  a  whole  theat 
rical  world  of  difference.  The  "In"  means  stardom ; 
the  "With"  that  the  play  is  considered  more  impor 
tant  than  the  cast. 

Don't  feel  sorry  for  Harrietta  Fuller.    Thousands 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     113 

of  women  have  envied  her;  thousands  of  men  ad 
mired,  and  several  have  loved  her  devotedly,  includ 
ing  her  father,  the  Rev.  H.  John  Scoville  (deceased). 
The  H.  stands  for  Harry.  She  was  named  for  him, 
of  course.  When  he  entered  the  church  he  was 
advised  to  drop  his  first  name  and  use  his  second  as 
being  more  fitting  in  his  position.  But  the  outward 
change  did  not  affect  his  inner  self.  He  remained 
more  Harry  than  John  to  the  last.  It  was  from  him 
Harrietta  got  her  acting  sense,  her  humour,  her  in 
telligence,  and  her  bad  luck. 

When  Harry  Scoville  was  eighteen  he  wanted  to 
go  on  the  stage.  At  twenty  he  entered  the  ministry. 
It  was  the  natural  outlet  for  his  suppressed  talents. 
In  his  day  and  family  and  environment  young  men 
did  not  go  on  the  stage.  The  Scovilles  were  Illinois 
pioneers  and  lived  in  Evanston,  and  Mrs.  Scoville 
(Harrietta's  grandmother,  you  understand,  though 
Harrietta  had  not  yet  appeared)  had  a  good  deal  to 
say  as  to  whether  coleslaw  or  cucumber  pickles 
should  be  served  at  the  Presbyterian  church  suppers, 
along  with  the  veal  loaf  and  the  scalloped  oysters. 
And  when  she  decided  on  coleslaw,  coleslaw  it  was. 
A  firm  tread  had  Mother  Scoville,  a  light  hand 
with  pastry,  and  a  will  that  was  adamant.  She  it 
was  who  misdirected  Harry's  gifts  toward  the  pulpit 
instead  of  the  stage.  He  never  forgave  her  for  it, 
though  he  made  a  great  success  of  his  calling  and  she 


114  GIGOLO 

died  unsuspecting  his  rancour.  The  women  of  his 
congregation  shivered  deliciously  when  the  Rev.  H. 
John  Scoville  stood  on  his  tiptoes  at  the  apex  of 
some  fiery  period  and  hurled  the  force  of  his  elo 
quence  at  them.  He,  the  minister,  was  unconsciously 
dramatizing  himself  as  a  minister. 

The  dramatic  method  had  not  then  come  into  use 
in  the  pulpit.  His  method  of  delivery  was  more 
restrained  than  that  of  the  old-time  revivalist;  less 
analytical  and  detached  than  that  of  the  present-day 
religious  lecturer. 

Presbyterian  Evanston  wending  its  way  home  to 
Sunday  roast  and  ice  cream  would  say:  "Wasn't 
Reverend  Scoville  powerful  to-day!  My!"  They 
never  guessed  how  Reverend  Scoville  had  had  to 
restrain  himself  from  delivering  Mark  Antony's  ad 
dress  to  the  Romans.  He  often  did  it  in  his  study 
when  his  gentle  wife  thought  he  was  rehearsing  next 
Sunday's  sermon. 

As  he  grew  older  he  overcame  these  boyish  weak 
nesses,  but  he  never  got  over  his  feeling  for  the  stage. 
There  were  certain  ill-natured  gossips  who  claimed 
to  have  recognized  the  fine,  upright  figure  and  the 
mobile  face  with  hair  greying  at  the  temples  as 
having  occupied  a  seat  in  the  third  row  of  the  bal 
cony  in  the  old  Grand  Opera  House  during  the  run 
of  Erminie.  The  elders  put  it  down  as  spite  talk 
and  declared  that,  personally,  they  didn't  believe 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     115 

a  word  of  it.  The  Rev.  H.  John  did  rather  startle 
them  when  he  discarded  the  ministerial  black 
broadcloth  for  a  natty  Oxford  suit  of  almost  busi 
ness  cut.  He  was  a  pioneer  in  this  among  the  clergy. 
The  congregation  soon  became  accustomed  to  it ;  in 
time,  boasted  of  it  as  marking  their  progressiveness. 

He  had  a  neat  ankle,  had  the  Reverend  Scoville, 
in  fine  black  lisle ;  a  merry  eye ;  a  rather  grim  look 
about  the  mouth,  as  has  a  man  whose  life  is  a  secret 
disappointment.  His  little  daughter  worshipped 
him.  He  called  her  Harry.  When  Harrietta  was 
eleven  she  was  reading  Lever  and  Dickens  and  Dumas, 
while  other  little  girls  were  absorbed  in  the  Elsie 
Series  and  The  Wide,  Wide  World.  Her  father 
used  to  deliver  his  sermons  to  her  in  private  re 
hearsal,  and  her  eager  mobile  face  reflected  his  every 
written  mood. 

"Oh,  Rev !"  she  cried  one  day  (it  is  to  be  regretted, 
but  that  is  what  she  always  called  him).  "Oh,  Rev, 
you  should  have  been  an  actor !" 

He  looked  at  her  queerly.  "What  makes  you 
think  so?" 

"You're  too  thrilling  for  a  minister."  She 
searched  about  in  her  agile  mind  for  fuller  means  of 
making  her  thought  clear.  "It's  like  when  Mother 
cooks  rose  geranium  leaves  in  her  grape  jell.  She 
says  they  gives  it  a  finer  flavour,  but  they  don't 
really.  You  can't  taste  them  for  the  grapes,  so 


116  GIGOLO 

they're  just  wasted  when  the}^re  so  darling  and  per- 
fumy  and  just  right  in  the  garden."  Her  face  was 
pink  with  earnestness. 

"D'you  see  what  I  mean,  Rev?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  see,  Harry." 

Then  she  surprised  him.  "I'm  going  on  the  stage," 
she  said,  "and  be  a  great  actress  when  I'm  grown 
up." 

His  heart  gave  a  leap  and  a  lurch.  "Why  do 
you  say  that?" 

"Because  I  want  to.  And  because  you  didn't. 
It'll  be  as  if  you  had  been  an  actor  instead  of  a  min 
ister — only  it'll  be  me." 

A  bewildering  enough  statement  to  any  one  but 
the  one  who  made  it  and  the .  one  to  whom  it  was 
made.  She  was  trying  to  say  that  here  was  the  law 
of  compensation  working.  But  she  didn't  know  this. 
She  had  never  heard  of  the  law  of  compensation. 

Her  gentle  mother  fought  her  decision  with  all  the 
savagery  of  the  gentle. 

"You'll  have  to  run  away,  Harry,"  her  father 
said,  sadly.  And  at  twenty-two  Harrietta  ran. 
Her  objective  was  New  York.  Her  father  did  not 
burden  her  with  advice.  He  credited  her  with  the 
intelligence  she  possessed,  but  he  did  overlook  her 
emotionalism,  which  was  where  he  made  his  mistake. 
Just  before  she  left  he  said:  "Now  listen,  Harry. 
You're  a  good-looking  girl,  and  young.  You'll  keep 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     117 

your  looks  for  a  long  time.  You're  not  the  kind 
of  blonde  who'll  get  wishy-washy  or  fat.  You've  got 
quite  a  good  deal  of  brunette  in  you.  It  crops  out 
in  your  voice.  It'll  help  preserve  your  looks.  Don't 
marry  the  first  man  who  asks  you  or  the  first  man 
who  says  he'll  die  if  you  don't.  You've  got  lots  of 
time." 

That  kind  of  advice  is  a  good  thing  for  the  young. 
Two  weeks  later  Harrietta  married  a  man  she  had 
met  on  the  train  between  Evanston  and  New  York. 
His  name  was  Lawrence  Fuller,  and  Harrietta  had 
gone  to  school  with  him  in  Evanston.  She  had  lost 
track  of  him  later.  She  remembered,  vaguely,  peo 
ple  had  said  he  had  gone  to  New  York  and  was 
pretty  wild.  Young  as  she  was  and  inexperienced, 
there  still  was  something  about  his  face  that  warned 
her.  It  was  pathological,  but  she  knew  nothing 
of  pathology.  He  talked  of  her  and  looked  at  her 
and  spoke,  masterfully  and  yet  shyly,  of  being  with 
her  in  New  York.  Harrietta  loved  the  way  his  hair 
sprang  away  from  his  brow  and  temples  in  a  clean 
line.  She  shoved  the  thought  of  his  chin  out  of  her 
mind.  His  hands  touched  her  a  good  deal — her 
shoulder,  her  knee,  her  wrist — but  so  lightly  that 
she  couldn't  resent  it  even  if  she  had  wanted  to. 
When  they  did  this,  queer  little  stinging  flashes 
darted  through  her  veins.  He  said  he  would  die 
if  she  did  not  marry  him. 


118  GIGOLO 

They  had  two  frightful  years  together  and  eight 
years  apart  before  he  died,  horribly,  in  the  sana 
torium  whose  enormous  fees  she  paid  weekly. 
They  had  regularly  swallowed  her  earnings  at  a  gulp. 

Naturally  a  life  like  this  develops  the  comedy 
sense.  You  can't  play  tragedy  while  you're  liv 
ing  it.  Harrietta  served  her  probation  in  stock, 
road  companies,  one-night  stands  before  she  achieved 
Broadway.  In  five  years  her  deft  comedy  method 
had  become  distinctive;  in  ten  it  was  unique.  Yet 
success — as  the  stage  measures  it  in  size  of  follow 
ing  and  dollars  of  salary — had  never  been  hers. 

Harrietta  knew  she  wasn't  a  success.     She  saw 
actresses   younger,   older,  less   adroit,  lacking  her 
charm,  minus  her  beauty,  featured,  starred,  heralded. 
Perhaps  she  gave  her  audiences  credit  for  more  in 
telligence   than   they    possessed,    and    they,   uncon 
sciously^,  resented  this.     Perhaps  if  she  had  read  the 
Elsie  Series  at  eleven,  instead  of  Dickens,  she  might 
have  been  willing  to  play  in  that  million-dollar  suc 
cess  called  Gossip.     It  was  offered  her.     The  lead1 
was  one  of  those  saccharine  parts,  vulgar,  false,  and 
slyly  carnal.     She  didn't  in  the  least  object  to  itt 
on  the  ground  of  immorality,  but  the  bad  writing: 
bothered  her.     There  was,  for  example,  a  line  in* 
which   she  was   supposed   to   beat   her   breast   and 
say:  "He's  my  mate!     He's  my  man!     And  I'm  his- 
woman ! !     I  love  him,  I  tell  you  I —  love  him!39 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     119 

"People  don't  talk  like  that,"  she  told  the  author, 
in  a  quiet  aside,  during  rehearsal.  "Especially 
women.  They  couldn't.  They  use  quite  common 
place  idiom  when  they're  excited." 

"Thanks,"  said  the  author,  elaborately  polite. 
"That's  the  big  scene  in  the  play.  It'll  be  a  knock 
out." 

When  Harrietta  tried  to  speak  these  lines  in  re 
hearsal  sne  began  to  giggle  and  ended  in  throwing  up 
the  ridiculous  part.  They  gave  it  to  that  little 
Frankie  Langdon,  and  the  playwright's  prophecy 
came  true.  The  breast-beating  scene  was  a  knock 
out.  It  ran  for  two  years  in  New  York  alone.  Lang- 
don's  sables,  chinchillas,  ermines,  and  jewels  were 
always  sticking  out  from  the  pages  of  Vanity  Fair 
and  Vogue.  When  she  took  curtain  calls,  Lang 
don  stood  with  her  legs  far  apart,  boyishly,  and 
tossed  her  head  and  looked  up  from  beneath  her 
lowered  lids  and  acted  surprised  and  sort  of  gasped 
like  a  fish  and  bit  her  lip  and  mumbled  to  herself 
as  if  overcome.  The  audience  said  wasn't  she  a  shy, 
young,  bewildered  darling! 

A  hard  little  rip  if  ever  there  was  one — Langdon 
• — and  as  shy  as  a  man-eating  crocodile. 

This  sort  of  sham  made  Harrietta  sick.  She, 
whose  very  art  was  that  of  pretending,  hated  pre 
tense,  affectation,  "coy  stuff."  This  was,  perhaps, 
unfortunate.  Your  Fatigued  Financier  prefers 


120  GIGOLO 

the  comedy  form  in  which  a  spade  is  not  only  called 
a  spade  but  a  slab  of  iron  for  digging  up  dirt. 
Harrietta  never  even  pretended  to  have  a  cough  on 
an  opening  night  so  that  the  critics,  should  the  play 
prove  a  failure,  might  say:  "Harrietta  Fuller, 
though  handicapped  by  a  severe  cold,  still  gave  her 
usual  brilliant  and  finished  performance  in  a  part 
not  quite  worthy  of  her  talents."  No.  The 
plaintive  smothered  cough,  the  quick  turn  aside, 
the  heaving  shoulder,  the  wispy  handkerchief  were 
clumsy  tools  beneath  her  notice. 

There  often  were  long  periods  of  idleness  when 
her  soul  sickened  and  her  purse  grew  lean.  Long 
hot  summers  in  New  York  when  awnings,  window 
boxes  geranium  filled,  drinks  iced  and  acidulous,  and 
Ken's  motor  car  for  cooling  drives  to  the  beaches 
failed  to  soothe  the  terror  in  her.  Thirty  .  .  . 
thirty-two  .  .  .  thirty-four  .  .  .  thirty- 
six.  .  .  . 

She  refused  to  say  it.  She  refused  to  think  of  it. 
She  put  the  number  out  of  her  mind  and  slammed  the 
door  on  it — on  that  hideous  number  beginning  with 
f.  At  such  times  she  was  given  to  contemplation  of 
her  own  photographs — and  was  reassured.  Her  in 
telligence  told  her  that  retouching  varnish,  pumice 
stone,  hard  pencil,  and  etching  knife  had  all  gone 
into  the  photographer's  version  of  this  clear-eyed, 
fresh-lipped  blooming  creature  gazing  back  at  her  so 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     121 

limpidly.     But,  then,  who  didn't  need  a  lot  of  re 
touching?     Even  the  youngest  of  them. 

All  this.     Yet  she  loved  it.     The  very  routine  of 
it  appealed  to  her  orderly  nature:  a  routine  that, 
were  it  widely  known,  would  shatter  all  those  ideas 
about  the  large,  loose  life  of  the  actress.     Harrietta 
Fuller  liked  to  know  that  at  such  and  such  an  hour 
she  would  be  in  her  dressing  room ;  at  such  and  such 
an  hour  on  the  stage ;  precisely  at  another  hour  she 
would  again  be  in  her  dressing  room  preparing  to 
go  home.    Then  the  stage  would  be  darkened.    They 
would  be  putting  the  scenery  away.     She  would  be 
crossing  the  bare  stage  on  her  way  home.     Then  she 
would  be  home,  undressing,  getting  ready  for  bed, 
reading.     She  liked  a  cup  of  clear  broth  at  night? 
or  a  drink  of  hot  cocoa.     It  soothed  and  rested  her. 
Besides,  one  is  hungry  after  two  and  a  half  hours  of 
high-tensioned,  nerve-exhausting  work.     She  was  in 
bed  usually  by  twelve-thirty. 

"But  you  can't  fall  asleep  like  a  dewy  babe  in 
my  kind  of  job,"  she  used  to  explain.  "People 
wonder  why  actresses  lie  in  bed  until  noon,  or  nearly. 
They  have  to,  to  get  as  much  sleep  as  a  stenographer 
or  a  clerk  or  a  bookkeeper.  At  midnight  I'm  all 
keyed  up  and  over-stimulated,  and  as  wide  awake 
as  an  all-night  taxi  driver.  It  takes  two  solid  hours 
of  reading  to  send  me  bye-bye." 

The  world  did  not  interest  itself  in  that  phase  of 


122  GIGOLO 

Harrietta's  life.  Neither  did  it  find  fascination  in 
her  domestic  side.  Harrietta  did  a  good  deal  of 
tidying  and  dusting  and  redding  up  in  her  own  two- 
room  apartment,  so  high  and  bright  and  spotless. 
She  liked  to  cook,  too,  and  was  expert  at  it.  Not 
for  her  those  fake  pictures  of  actresses  and  opera 
stars  in  chiffon  tea  gowns  and  satin  slippers  and 
diamond  chains  cooking  "their  favourite  dish  of 
spaghetti  and  creamed  mushrooms,"  and  staring 
out  at  you  bright-eyed  and  palpably  unable  to  tell 
the  difference  between  salt  and  paprika.  Harrietta 
liked  the  ticking  of  a  clock  in  a  quiet  room;  oven 
smells,'  concocting  new  egg  dishes;  washing  out 
lacy  things  in  warm  soapsuds.  A  throw-back,  prob^ 
ably,  to  her  grandmother  Scoville. 

The  worst  feature  of  a  person  like  Harrietta  is, 
as  you  already  have  discovered  with  some  impatience, 
that  one  goes  on  and  on,  talking  about  her.  And 
the  listener  at  last  breaks  out  with :  "This  is  all  very 
interesting,  but  I  feel  as  if  I  know  her  now.  What 
then?" 

Then  the  thing  to  do  is  to  go  serenely  on  telling, 
for  example,  how  the  young  thing  in  Harrietta 
Fuller's  company  invariably  came  up  to  her  at  the 
first  rehearsal  and  said  tremulously:  "Miss  Fuller, 
I — you  won't  mind — I  just  want  to  tell  you  how 
proud  I  am  to  be  one  of  your  company.  Playing 
with  you.  You've  been  my  ideal  ever  since  I  was 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     123 

a  little  g — "  then,  warned  by  a  certain  icy  mask  slip 
ping  slowly  over  the  brightness  of  Harrietta's  fea 
tures — "ever  so  long,  but  I  never  even  hoped " 

These  young  things  always  learned  an  amazing; 
lot  from  watching  the  deft,  sure  strokes  of  Harri 
etta's  craftsmanship.  She  was  kind  to  them,  too. 
Encouraged  them.  Never  hogged  a  scene  that  be 
longed  to  them.  Never  cut  their  lines.  Never 
patronized  them.  They  usually  played  ingenue 
parts,  and  their  big  line  was  that  uttered  on 
coming  into  a  room  looking  for  Harrietta.  It  was : 
"Ah,  there  you  are!" 

How  can  you  really  know  Harrietta  unless  you 
realize  the  deference  with  which  she  was  treated  in 
her  own  little  sphere?  If  the  world  at  large  did  not 
acclaim  her,  there  was  no  lack  of  appreciation  on  the 
part  of  her  fellow  workers.  They  knew  artistry  when 
they  saw  it.  Though  she  had  never  attained  star 
dom,  she  still  had  the  distinction  that  usually  comes 
only  to  a  star  back  stage.  Unless  she  actually  was 
playing  in  support  of  a  first-magnitude  star,  her 
dressing  room  was  marked  "A."  Other  members 
of  the  company  did  not  drop  into  her  dressing  room 
except  by  invitation.  That  room  was  neat  to  the 
point  of  primness.  A  square  of  white  coarse  sheet 
ing  was  spread  on  the  floor,  under  the  chair  before 
her  dressing  table,  to  gather  up  dust  and  powder. 
It  was  regularly  shaken  or  changed.  There  were 


124  GIGOLO 

always  flowers — often  a  single  fine  rose  in  a  slender 
vase.  On  her  dressing  table,  in  a  corner,  you  were 
likely  to  find  three  or  four  volumes — perhaps  The 
Amenities  of  Book-Collecting;  something  or  other 
of  Max  Beerbohm's ;  a  book  of  verse  (not  Amy 
Lowell's). 

These  were  not  props  designed  to  impress  the 
dramatic  critic  who  might  drop  in  for  one  of  those 
personal  little  theatrical  calls  to  be  used  in  next 
Sunday's  "Chats  in  the  Wings."  They  were  there 
because  Harrietta  liked  them  and  read  them  between 
acts.  She  had  a  pretty  wit  of  her  own.  The 
critics  liked  to  talk  with  her.  Even  George  Jean 
Hathem,  whose  favourite  pastime  was  to  mangle 
the  American  stage  with  his  pen  and  hold  its  bleed 
ing,  gaping  fragments  up  for  the  edification  of 
Budapest,  Petrograd,  Vienna,  London,  Berlin,  Paris, 
and  Stevens  Point,  Wis.,  said  that  five  minutes  of 
Harrietta  Fuller's  conversation  was  worth  a  life-time 
of  New  York  stage  dialogue.  For  that  matter 
I  think  that  Mr.  Beerbohm  himself  would  not  have 
found  a  talk  with  her  altogether  dull  or  profitless. 

The  leading  man  generally  made  love  to  her  in  an 
expert,  unaggressive  way.  A  good  many  men  had 
tried  to  make  love  to  her  at  one  time  or  another. 
They  didn't  get  on  very  well.  Harrietta  never  went 
to  late  suppers.  Some  of  them  complained :  "When 
you  try  to  make  love  to  her  she  laughs  at  you !"  She 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     125 

wasn't  really  laughing  at  them.  She  was  laughing 
at  what  she  knew  about  life.  Occasionally  men  now 
married,  and  living  dully  content  in  the  prim  sub 
urban  smugness  of  Pelham  or  New  Kochelle,  boasted 
of  past  friendship  with  her,  wagging  their  heads 
doggishly.  "Little  Fuller !  I  used  to  know  her  well." 

They  lied. 

Not  that  she  didn't  count  among  her  friends  many 
men.  She  dined  with  them  and  they  with  her. 
They  were  writers  and  critics,  lawyers  and  doc 
tors,  engineers  and  painters.  Actors  almost  never. 
They  sent  her  books  and  flowers ;  valued  her  opinion, 
delighted  in  her  conversation,  wished  she  wouldn't 
sometimes  look  at  them  so  quizzically.  And  if  they 
didn't  always  comprehend  her  wit,  they  never  failed 
to  appreciate  the  contour  of  her  face,  where  the 
thoughtful  brow  was  contradicted  by  the  lovely 
little  nose,  and  both  were  drowned  in  the  twin  wells 
of  the  wide-apart,  misleadingly  limpid  eyes  that  lay 
ensnaringly  between. 

"Your  eyes!"  these  gentlemen  sometimes  stam 
mered,  "the  lashes  are  reflected  in  them  like  ferns 
edging  a  pool." 

"Yes.  The  mascaro's  good  for  them.  You'd 
think  all  that  black  sticky  stuff  I  have  put  on,  would 
hurt  them,  but  it  really  makes  them  grow,  I  believe. 
Sometimes  I  even  use  a  burnt  match,  and  yet 
it " 


126  GIGOLO 

"Damn  your  burnt  matches!  I'm  talking  about 
your  lashes." 

"So  am  I."  She  would  open  her  eyes  wide  in 
surprise,  and  the  lashes  could  almost  be  said  to  wave 
at  him  tantalizingly,  like  fairy  fans.  (He  probably 
wished  he  could  have  thought  of  that.) 

Ken  never  talked  to  her  about  her  lashes.  Ken 
thought  she  was  the  most  beauteous,  witty,  intelligent 
woman  in  the  world,  but  he  had  never  told  her  so, 
and  she  found  herself  wishing  he  would.  Ken  was 
forty-one  and  Knew  About  Etchings.  He  knew 
about  a  lot  of  other  things,  too.  Difficult,  complex 
things  like  Harrietta  Fuller,  for  example.  He  had 
to  do  with  some  intricate  machine  or  other  that  was 
vital  to  printing,  and  he  was  perfecting  something 
connected  with  it  or  connecting  something  needed 
for  its  perfection  that  would  revolutionize  the  thing 
the  machine  now  did  (whatever  it  was).  Harrietta 
refused  to  call  him  an  inventor.  She  said  it  sounded 
so  impecunious.  They  had  known  each  other  for 
six  years.  When  she  didn't  feel  like  talking  he 
didn't  say:  "What's  the  matter?"  He  never  told 
her  that  women  had  no  business  monkeying  with 
stocks  or  asked  her  what  they  called  that  stuff  her 
dress  was  made  of,  or  telephoned  before  noon. 
Twice  a  year  he  asked  her  to  marry  him,  presenting 
excellent  reasons.  His  name  was  Carrigan.  You'd 
like  him. 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     127 

"When  I  marry,"  Harrietta  "would  announce, 
"which  will  be  never,  it  will  be  the  only  son  of  a  rich 
iron  king  from  Duluth,  Minnesota.  And  I'll  go  there 
to  live  in  an  eighteen-room  mansion  and  pluck  roses 
for  the  breakfast  room." 

"There  are  few  roses  in  Duluth,"  said  Ken,  "to 
speak  of.  And  no  breakfast  rooms.  You  break 
fast  in  the  dining  room,  and  in  the  winter  you  wear 
flannel  underwear  and  galoshes." 

"California,  then.  And  he  can  be  the  son  of  a 
fruit  king.  I'm  not  narrow." 

Harrietta  was  thirty-seven  and  a  half  when  there 
came  upon  her  a  great  fear.  It  had  been  a  wretch 
edly  bad  season.  Two  failures.  The  rent  on  her 
two-room  apartment  in  Fifty-sixth  Street  jumped 
from  one  hundred  and  twenty-five,  which  she  could 
afford,  to  two  hundred  a  month,  which  she  couldn't. 
Mary — Irish  Mary — her  personal  maid,  left  her 
in  January.  Personal  maids  are  one  of  the  super 
stitions  of  the  theatrical  profession,  and  an  actress 
of  standing  is  supposed  to  go  hungry  rather  than 
maidless. 

"Why  don't  you  fire  Irish  Mary?"  Ken  had 
asked  Harrietta  during  a  period  of  stringency. 

"I  can't  afford  to." 

Ken  understood,  but  you  may  not.  Harrietta 
would  have  made  it  clear.  "Any  actress  who  earns 
more  than  a  hundred  a  week  is  supposed  to  have  a 


128  GIGOLO 

maid  in  her  dressing  room.  No  one  knows  why, 
but  it's  true.  I  remember  in  The  Small-Town 
Girl  I  wore  the  same  gingham  dress  throughout 
three  acts,  but  I  was  paying  Mary  twenty  a  week 
just  the  same.  If  I  hadn't  some  one  in  the  company 
would  have  told  some  one  in  another  company  that 
Harrietta  Fuller  was  broke.  It  would  have  seeped 
through  the  director  to  the  manager,  and  next  time 
they  offered  me  a  part  they'd  cut  my  salary.  It's 
absurd,  but  there  it  is.  A  vicious  circle." 

Irish  Mary's  reason  for  leaving  Harrietta  was 
a  good  one.  It  would  have  to  be,  for  she  was  of 
that  almost  extinct  species,  the  devoted  retainer. 
Irish  Mary  wasn't  the  kind  of  maid  one  usually 
encounters  back  stage.  No  dapper,  slim,  black- 
and-white  pert  miss,  with  a  wisp  of  apron  and  a 
knowledgeous  eye.  An  ample,  big-hipped,  broad- 
bosomed  woman  with  an  apron  like  a  drop  curtain 
and  a  needle  knack  that  kept  Harrietta  mended,  be- 
ribboned,  berufHed,  and  exquisite  from  her  garters 
to  her  coat  hangers.  She  had  been  around  the  thea 
tre  for  twenty-five  years,  and  her  thick,  deft  fingers 
had  served  a  long  line  of  illustrious  ladies — Corinne 
Foster,  Gertrude  Bennett,  Lucille  Varney.  She 
knew  all  the  shades  of  grease  paint  from  Flesh  to 
Sallow  Old  Age,  and  if  you  gained  an  ounce  she 
warned  you. 

Her    last    name    was    Lesom,    but    nobody    re- 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     129 

membered  it  until  she  brought  forward  a  daughter 
of  fifteen  with  the  request  that  she  be  given  a  job; 
anything — walk-on,  extra,  chorus.  Lyddy,  she 
called  her.  The  girl  seldom  spoke.  She  was  ex 
tremely  stupid,  but  a  marvellous  mimic,  and  pretty 
beyond  belief;  fragile,  and  yet  with  something  com 
mon  about  her  even  in  her  fragility.  Her  wrists  had 
a  certain  flat  angularity  that  bespoke  a  peasant  an 
cestry,  but  she  had  a  singular  freshness  and  youthful 
bloom.  The  line  of  her  side  face  from  the  eye  socket 
to  the  chin  was  a  delicious  thing  that  curved  with  the 
grace  of  a  wing.  The  high  cheekbone  sloped  down 
so  that  the  outline  was  heart-shaped.  There  were 
little  indentations  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 
She  had  eyes  singularly  clear,  like  a  child's,  and  a 
voice  so  nasal,  so  strident,  so  dreadful  that  when 
she  parted  her  pretty  lips  and  spoke,  the  sound 
shocked  you  like  a  peacock's  raucous  screech. 

Harrietta  had  managed  to  get  a  bit  for  her  here, 
a  bit  for  her  there,  until  by  the  time  she  was  eight 
een  she  was  giving  a  fairly  creditable  performance 
in  practically  speechless  parts.  It  was  dangerous 
to  trust  her  even  with  an  "Ah,  there  you  are !"  line. 
The  audience,  startled,  was  so  likely  to  laugh. 

At  about  this  point  she  vanished,  bound  for  Holly 
wood  and  the  movies.  "She's  the  little  fool,  just," 
said  Irish  Mary.  "What'll  she  be  wantin'  with  the 
movies,  then,  an'  her  mother  connected  with  the 


130  GIGOLO 

theayter  for  years  an'  all,  and  her  you  might  say 
brought  up  in  it?" 

But  she  hadn't  been  out  there  a  year  before  the 
world  knew  her  as  Lydia  Lissome.  Starting  as  an 
extra  girl  earning  twenty-five  a  week  or  less,  she 
had  managed,  somehow,  to  get  the  part  of  Betty 
in  the  screen  version  of  The  Magician,  probably 
because  she  struck  the  director  as  being  the  type; 
or  perhaps  her  gift  of  mimicry  had  something  to  do 
with  it,  and  the  youth  glow  that  was  in  her  face. 
At  any  rate,  when  the  picture  was  finished  and 
released,  no  one  wo,s  more  surprised  than  Lyddy 
at  the  result.  They  offered  her  three  thousand  a 
week  on  a  three-year  contract.  She  wired  her 
mother,  but  Irish  Mary  wired  back :  "I  don't  believe 
a  word  of  it  hold  out  for  five  am  coming."  She  left 
for  the  Coast.  Incidentally,  she  got  the  five  for 
Lyddy.  Lyddy  signed  her  name  to  the  contract — 
Lydia  Lissome — in  a  hand  that  would  have  done 
discredit  to  an  eleven-year-old. 

Harrietta  told  Ken  about  it,  not  without  some 
bitterness:  "Which  only  proves  one  can't  be  too 
careful  about  picking  one's  parents.  If  my  father 
had  been  a  hod  carrier  instead  of  a  minister  of  the 
Gospel  and  a  darling  old  dreamer,  I'd  be  earning 
five  thousand  a  week,  too." 

They  were  dining  together  in  Harrietta's  little 
sitting  room  so  high  up  and  quiet  and  bright  with  its 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     131 

cream  enamel  and  its  log  fire.  Almost  one  entire 
wall  of  that  room  was  window,  facing  south,  and 
framing  such  an  Arabian  Nights  panorama  as 
only  a  New  York  eleventh-story  window,  facing 
south,  can  offer. 

Ken  lifted  his  right  eyebrow,  which  was  a  way  he 
had  when  being  quizzical.  "What  would  you  do 
with  five  thousand  a  week,  just  supposing?" 

"I'd  do  all  the  vulgar  things  that  other  people 
do  who  have  five  thousand  a  week." 

"You  wouldn't  enjoy  them.  You  don't  care  for 
small  dogs  or  paradise  aigrettes  or  Italian  villas  in 
Connecticut  or  diamond-studded  cigarette  holders 
or  plush  limousines  or  butlers."  He  glanced  com 
prehensively  about  the  little  room — at  the  baby 
grand  whose  top  was  pleasantly  littered  with  photo 
graphs  and  bonbon  dishes  and  flower  vases;  at  the 
smart  little  fire  snapping  in  the  grate;  at  the  cheer 
ful  reds  and  blues  and  ochres  and  sombre  blues  and 
purples  and  greens  of  the  books  in  the  open  book 
shelves  ;  at  the  squat  clock  on  the  mantelshelf ;  at  the 
gorgeous  splashes  of  black  and  gold  glimpsed 
through  the  many-paned  window.  "You've  got 
everything  you  really  want  right  here" — his  gesture 
seemed,  somehow,  to  include  himself — "if  you  only 
knew  it." 

"You  talk,"  snapped  Harrietta,  "as  the  Rev.  H. 
John  Scoville  used  to."  She  had  never  said  a  thing 


132  GIGOLO 

like  that  before.  "I'm  sick  of  what  they  call  being 
true  to  my  art.  I'm  tired  of  having  last  year's 
suit  relined,  even  if  it  is  smart  enough  to  be  good  this 
year.  I'm  sick  of  having  the  critics  call  me  an  in 
telligent  comedienne  who  is  unfortunate  in  her  choice 
of  plays.  Some  day" — a  little  flash  of  fright  was 
there — "I'll  pick  up  the  Times  and  see  myself  re 
ferred  to  as  'that  sterling  actress.'  Then  I'll  know 
I'm  through." 

"You!" 

"Tell  me  I'm  young,  Ken.  Tell  me  I'm  young  and 
beautiful  and  bewitching." 

"You're  young  and  beautiful  and  bewitching." 

"Ugh!  And  yet  they  say  the  Irish  have  the 
golden  tongues." 

Two  months  later  Harrietta  had  an  offer  to  go 
into  pictures.  It  wasn't  her  first,  but  it  undeniably 
was  the  best.  The  sum  offered  per  week  was  what 
she  might  usually  expect  to  get  per  month  in  a  suc 
cessful  stage  play.  To  accept  the  offer  meant  the 
Coast.  She  found  herself  having  a  test  picture 
taken  and  trying  to  believe  the  director  who  said 
it  was  good ;  found  herself  expatiating  on  the  bright 
ness,  quietness,  and  general  desirability  of  the 
eleventh-floor  apartment  in  Fifty-sixth  Street  to 
an  acquaintance  who  was  seeking  a  six  months'  city 
haven  for  the  summer. 

"She'll  probably  ruin  my  enamel  dressing  table 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     133 

with  toilet  water  and  ring  my  piano  top  with  wet 
glasses  and  spatter  grease  on  the  kitchenette  wall. 
But  I'll  be  earning  a  million,"  Harrietta  announced, 
recklessly,  "or  thereabouts.  Why  should  I  care?" 

She  did  care,  though,  as  a  naturally  neat  and 
thrifty  woman  cares  for  her  household  goods  which 
have,  through  years  of  care  of  them  and  associa 
tion  with  them,  become  her  household  gods.  The 
clock  on  the  mantel  wasn't  a  clock,  but  a  plump 
friend  with  a  white  smiling  face  and  a  soothing 
tongue;  the  low,  ample  davenport  wasn't  a  daven 
port  only,  but  a  soft  bosom  that  pillowed  her;  that 
which  lay  spread  shimmering  beneath  her  window 
was  not  New  York  alone — it  was  her  View.  To  a 
woman  like  this,  letting  her  apartment  furnished  is 
like  farming  out  her  child  to  strangers. 

She  had  told  her  lessee  about  her  laundress  and 
her  cleaning  woman  and  how  to  handle  the  balky 
faucet  that  controlled  the  shower.  She  had  said 
good-bye  to  Ken  entirely  surrounded  by  his  books, 
magazines,  fruit,  and  flowers.  She  was  occupying 
a  Pullman  drawing  room  paid  for  by  the  free-handed 
filmers.  She  was  crossing  farm  lands,  plains, 
desert.  She  was  wondering  if  all  those  pink  sweaters 
and  white  flannel  trousers  outside  the  Hollywood 
Hotel  were  there  for  the  same  reason  that  she 
was.  She  was  surveying  a  rather  warm  little  room 
shaded  by  a  dense  tree  whose  name  she  did  not  know. 


134  GIGOLO 

She  was  thinking  it  felt  a  lot  like  her  old  trouping 
days,  when  her  telephone  tinkled  and  a  voice  an 
nounced  Mrs.  Lissome.  Lissome?  Lesam.  Irish 
Mary,  of  course.  Harrietta's  maid,  engaged  for 
the  trip,  had  failed  her  at  the  last  moment.  Now 
her  glance  rested  on  the  two  massive  trunks  and 
the  litter  of  smart,  glittering  bags  that  strewed 
the  room.  A  relieved  look  crept  into  her  eyes.  A 
knock  at  the  door.  A  resplendent  figure  was  re 
vealed  at  its  opening.  The  look  in  Harrietta's 
eyes  vanished. 

Irish  Mary  looked  like  the  mother  of  a  girl  who 
was  earning  five  thousand  a  week.  She  was  marcel 
led,  silk-clad,  rustling,  gold-meshed,  and,  oh,  how 
real  in  spite  of  it  all  as  she  beamed  upon  the  dazzled 
Harrietta. 

"Out  with  ye!"  trumpeted  this  figure,  brushing 
aside  Harrietta's  proffered  chair.  "There'll  be  no 
stayin'  here  for  you.  You're  coming  along  with  me, 
then,  bag  and  baggage."  She  glanced  sharply 
about.  "Where's  your  maid,  dearie?" 

"Disappointed  me  at  the  last  minute.  I'll  have 
to  get  someone " 

"We've  plenty.     You're  coming  up  to  our  place." 

"But,  Mary,  I  can't.  I  couldn't.  I'm  tired. 
This  room " 

"A  hole.  Wait  till  you  see  The  Place.  Gardens 
and  breakfast  rooms  and  statues  and  fountains  and 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     135 

them  Jap  boys  ruimin'  up  and  down  like  mice.  We 
rented  it  for  a  year  from  that  Goya  Giro.  She's 
gone  back  East.  How  she  ever  made  good  in  pic 
tures  I  don't  know,  and  her  face  like  a  hot-water 
bag  for  expression.  Lyddy's  going  to  build  next 
year.  They're  drawin'  up  the  plans  now.  The 
Place  '11  be  nothin'  compared  to  it  when  it's  finished. 
Put  on  your  hat.  The  boys'll  see  to  your  stuff  here." 

"I  can't.  I  couldn't.  You're  awfully  kind,  Mary 
dear " 

Mary  dear  was  at  the  telephone.  "Mrs.  Lissome. 
That's  who.  Send  up  that  Jap  boy  for  the  bags." 

Mrs.  Lissome's  name  and  Mrs.  Lissome's  com 
mands  apparently  carried  heavily  in  Hollywood.  A 
uniformed  Jap  appeared  immediately  as  though 
summoned  by  a  genie.  The  bags  seemed  to  spring 
to  him,  so  quickly  was  he  enveloped  by  their  glitter 
ing  surfaces.  He  was  off  with  the  burdens,  invisible 
except  for  his  gnomelike  face  and  his  sturdy  bow 
legs  in  their  footman's  boots. 

"I  can't,"  said  Harrietta,  feebly,  for  the  last  time. 
It  was  her  introduction  to  the  topsy-turvy  world 
into  which  she  had  come.  She  felt  herself  propelled 
down  the  stairs  by  Irish  Mary,  who  wasn't  Irish 
Mary  any  more,  but  a  Force  whose  orders  were 
obeyed.  In  the  curved  drive  outside  the  Hollywood 
Hotel  the  little  Jap  was  stowing  the  last  of  the  bags 
into  the  great  blue  car  whose  length  from  nose  to 


136  GIGOLO 

tail  seemed  to  span  the  hotel  frontage.  At  the  wheel, 
rigid,  sat  a  replica  of  the  footman. 

Irish  Mary  with  a  Japanese  chauffeur.  Irish 
Mary  with  a  Japanese  footman.  Irish  Mary  with  a 
great  glittering  car  that  was  as  commodious  as  the 
average  theatre  dressing  room. 

"Get  in,  dearie.  Lyddy's  using  the  big  car  to 
day.  They're  out  on  location.  Shootin'  the  last 
of  Devils  and  Men. 

Harrietta  was  saying  to  herself:  "Don't  be  a 
nasty  snob,  Harry.  This  is  a  different  world. 
Think  of  the  rotten  time  Alice  would  have  had  in 
Wonderland  if  she  hadn't  been  broad-minded.  Take 
it  as  it  comes." 

Irish  Mary  was  talking  as  they  sped  along  through 
the  hot  white  Hollywood  sunshine.  .  .  .  "Stay 
right  with  us  as  long  as  you  like,  dearie,  but  if 
after  you're  workin'  you  want  a  place  of  your  own, 
I  know  of  just  the  thing  you  can  rent  furnished,  and 
a  Jap  gardener  and  house  man  and  cook  right  on 
the  places  besides " 

"But  I'm  not  signed  for  five  thousand  a  week,  like 
Lydia,"  put  in  Harrietta. 

"I  know  what  you're  signed  for.  'Twas  me  put 
'em  up  to  it,  an'  who  else!  'Easy  money,'  I  says, 
'an'  why  shouldn't  she  be  gettin'  some  of  it?'  Lyddy 
spoke  to  Gans  about  it.  What  Lyddy  says  goes. 
She's  a  good  girl,  Lyddy  is,  an'  would  you  believe 


\ 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     137 

the  money  an'  all  hasn't  gone  to  her  brains,  though 
what  with  workin'  like  a  horse  an'  me  to  steady  her, 
an'  shrewder  than  the  lawyers  themself,  if  I  do  say 
it,  she  ain't  had  much  chance.  And  here's  The 
Place." 

And  here  was  The  Place.  Sundials,  rose  gardens, 
gravel  paths,  dwarf  trees,  giant  trees,  fountains, 
swimming  pools,  tennis  courts,  goldfish,  statues, 
verandas,  sleeping  porches,  awnings,  bird  baths, 
pergolas. 

Inside  more  Japs.  Maids.  Rooms  furnished 
like  the  interior  of  movie  sets  that  Harrietta  re 
membered  having  seen.  A  bedroom,  sitting  room, 
dressing  room,  and  bath  all  her  own  in  one  wing  of 
the  great  white  palace,  only  one  of  thousands  of 
great  white  palaces  scattered  through  the  hills  of 
Hollywood.  The  closet  for  dresses,  silk-lined  and 
scented,  could  have  swallowed  whole  her  New  York 
bedroom. 

"Lay  down,"  said  Irish  Mary,  "an'  get  easy. 
Lyddy  won't  be  home  till  six  if  she's  early,  an'  she'll 
prob'bly  be  in  bed  by  nine  now  they're  rushin'  the 
end  of  the  picture,  an'  she's  got  to  be  on  the  lot  made 
up  by  nine  or  sooner." 

"Nine — in  the  morning !" 

"Well,  sure!  You  soon  get  used  to  it.  They've 
got  to  get  all  the  daylight  they  can,  an'  times  the 
fog's  low  earlier,  or  they'd  likely  start  at  seven  or 


138  GIGOLO 

eight.     You  look  a  little  beat,  dearie.     Lay  down. 
I'll  have  you  unpacked  while  we're  eatin'." 

But  Harrietta  did  not  lie  down.  She  went  to 
the  window.  Below  a  small  army  of  pigmy  garden 
ers  were  doing  expert  things  to  flower  beds  and 
bushes  that  already  seemed  almost  shamelessly 
prolific.  Harrietta  thought,  suddenly,  of  her  green- 
painted  flower  boxes  outside  the  eleventh-story  south 
window  in  the  New  York  flat.  Outside  her  window 
here  a  great  scarlet  hibiscus  stuck  its  tongue  out  at 
her.  Harrietta  stuck  her  tongue  out  at  it,  child 
ishly,  and  turned  away.  She  liked  a  certain  reti 
cence  in  flowers,  as  in  everything  else.  She  sat  down 
at  the  desk,  took  up  a  sheet  of  lavender  and  gold 
paper  and  the  great  lavender  plumed  pen.  The 
note  she  wrote  to  Ken  was  the  kind  of  note  that  only 
Ken  would  understand,  unless  you've  got  into  the 
way  of  reading  it  once  a  year  or  so,  too : 

Ken,  dear,  I  almost  wish  I  hadn't  gone  down  that 
rabbit  hole,  and  yet — and  yet — it's  rather  curious,  you 
know,  this  sort  of  life. 

Two  weeks  later,  when  she  had  begun  to  get  used 
to  her  new  work,  her  new  life,  the  strange  hours, 
people,  jargon,  she  wrote  him  another  cryptic  note: 

Alice — "Well,  in  our  country  you'd  generally  get  to 
somewhere  else — if  you  ran  very  fast  for  a  long  time, 
as  FTC  been  doing." 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     139 

Red  Queen — "Here  it  takes  all  the  running  you  can 
do  to  keep  in  the  same  place." 

In  those  two  weeks  things  had  happened  rather 
breathlessly.  Harrietta  had  moved  from  the  splen 
dours  of  The  Place  to  her  own  rose-embowered 
bungalow.  Here,  had  she  wanted  to  do  any  case 
ment  work  with  a  white  rose,  like  that  earlier  heroine, 
she  could  easily  have  managed  it  had  not  the  early 
morning  been  so  feverishly  occupied  in  reaching  the 
lot  in  time  to  be  made  up  by  nine.  She  soon  learned 
the  jargon.  "The  lot"  meant  the  studio  in  which 
she  was  working,  and  its  environs.  "We're  going  to 
shoot  you  this  morning,"  meant  that  she  would  be 
needed  in  to-day's  scenes.  Often  she  was  in  bed  by 
eight  at  night,  so  tired  that  she  could  not  sleep. 
She  wondered  v>hat  the  picture  was  about.  She 
couldn't  make  head  or  tail  of  it. 

They  were  filming  J.  N.  Gardner's  novel,  Ro 
mance  of  Arcady,  but  they  had  renamed  it  Let's 
Get  a  Husband.  The  heroine  in  the  novel  was  the 
young  wife  of  twenty-seven  who  had  been  married 
five  years.  This  was  Harrietta's  part.  In  the  book 
there  had  been  a  young  girl,  too — a  saccharine  miss 
of  seventeen  who  was  the  minor  love  interest.  This 
was  Lydia  Lissome's  part.  Slowly  it  dawned  on 
Harrietta  that  things  had  been  nightmarishly  tam 
pered  with  in  the  film  version,  and  that  the  change  in 


140  GIGOLO 

name  was  the  least  of  the  indignities  to  which  the 
novel  had  been  subjected. 

It  took  Harrietta  some  time  to  realize  this  be 
cause  they  were  not  taking  the  book  scenes  in  their 
sequence.  They  took  them  according  to  light,  con 
venience,  location.  Indoor  scenes  were  taken  in 
one  group,  so  that  the  end  of  the  story  might  often 
be  the  first  to  be  filmed. 

For  a  week  Harrietta  was  dressed,  made  up,  and 
ready  for  work  at  nine  o'clock,  and  for  a  week  she 
wasn't  used  in  a  single  scene.  The  hours  of  waiting 
made  her  frantic.  The  sun  was  white  hot.  Her 
little  dressing  room  was  stifling.  She  hated  her 
face  with  its  dead-white  mask  and  blue-lidded  eyes. 
When,  finally,  her  time  came  she  found  that  after 
being  dressed  and  ready  from  nine  until  five-thirty 
daily  she  was  required,  at  4 :56  on  the  sixth  day,  to 
cross  the  set,  open  a  door,  stop,  turn,  appear  to  be 
listening,  and  recross  the  set  to  meet  someone  en 
tering  from  the  opposite  side.  This  scene,  trivial 
as  it  appeared,  was  rehearsed  seven  times  before  the 
director  was  satisfied  with  it. 

The  person  for  whom  she  had  paused,  turned, 
and  crossed  was  Lydia  Lissome.  And  Lydia  Lis 
some,  it  soon  became  evident,  had  the  lead  in  this 
film.  In  the  process  of  changing  from  novel  to 
scenario,  the  Young  Wife  had  become  a  rather 
middle-aged  wife,  and  the  Flapper  of  seventeen  had 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     141 

become  the  heroine.  And  Harrietta  Fuller,  erst 
while  actress  of  youthful  comedy  parts  for  the  stage, 
found  herself  moving  about  in  black  velvet  and 
pearls  and  a  large  plumed  fan  as  a  background  for 
the  white  ruffles  and  golden  curls  and  sunny  scenes 
in  which  Lydia  Lissome  held  the  camera's  eye. 

For  vears  Harrietta  Fuller's  entrance  during  a 
rehearsal  always  had  created  a  little  stir  among  the 
company.  This  one  rose  to  give  her  a  seat;  that 
one  made  her  a  compliment ;  Sam  Klein,  the  veteran 
director,  patted  her  cheek  and  said:  "You're  going 
to  like  this  part,  Miss  Fuller.  And  they're  going  to 
eat  it  up.  You  see."  The  author  bent  over  her  in 
mingled  nervousness  and  deference  and  admiration. 
The  Young  Thing  who  was  to  play  the  ingenue  part 
said  shyly:  "Oh,  Miss  Fuller,  may  I  tell  you  how 
happy  I  am  to  be  playing  with  you?  You've  been 
my  ideal,  etc." 

And  now  Harrietta  Fuller,  in  black  velvet,  was 
the  least  important  person  on  the  lot.  No  one  was 
rude  to  her.  Everyone  was  most  kind,  in  fact. 
Kind!  To  Harrietta  Fuller!  She  found  that  her 
face  felt  stiff  and  expressionless  after  long  hours  of 
waiting,  waiting,  and  an  elderly  woman  who  was 
playing  a  minor  part  showed  her  how  to  overcome 
this  by  stretching  her  face,  feature  for  feature,  as 
a  dancer  goes  through  limbering  exercises  in  the 
wings.  The  woman  had  been  a  trouper  in  the  old; 


142  GIGOLO 

days  of  one-night  stands.  Just  before  she  stepped 
in  front  of  the  camera  you  saw  her  drawing  down 
her  face  grotesquely,  stretching  her  mouth  to  form 
an  oval,  dropping  her  jaw,  twisting  her  lips  to  the 
right,  to  the  left,  rolling  her  eyes  round  and  round. 
It  was  a  perfect  lesson  in  facial  calisthenics,  and 
Harrietta  was  thankful  for  it.  Harrietta  was  in 
terested  in  such  things — interested  in  them,  and 
grateful  for  what  they  taught  her. 

She  told  herself  that  she  didn't  mind  the  stir  that 
Lydia  Lissome  made  when  she  was  driven  up  in  the 
morning  in  her  great  blue  limousine  with  the  two 
Japs  sitting  so  straight  and  immobile  in  front,  like 
twin  Nipponese  gods.  But  she  did.  She  told  her 
self  she  didn't  mind  when  the  director  said:  "Miss 
Fuller,  if  you'll  just  watch  Miss  Lissome  work.  She 
has  perfect  picture  tempo."  But  she  did.  The 
director  was  the  new-fashioned  kind,  who  spoke 
softly,  rehearsed  you  almost  privately,  never  bawled 
through  a  megaphone.  A  slim  young  man  in  a 
white  shirt  and  flannel  trousers  and  a  pair  of  Har 
vard-looking  glasses.  Everybody  was  young.  That 
was  it!  Not  thirty,  or  thirty-two,  or  thirty-four, 
or  thirty-seven,  but  young.  Terribly,  horribly, 
actually  young.  That  was  it. 

Harrietta  Fuller  was  too  honest  not  to  face  this 
fact  squarely.  When  she  went  to  a  Thursday-night 
dance  at  the  Hollywood  Hotel  she  found  herself  in 


NOT  A  DAT  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     143 

a  ballroom  full  of  slim,  pliant,  corsetless  young 
things  of  eighteen,  nineteen,  twenty.  The  men,  with 
marcelled  hair  and  slim  feet  and  sunburnt  faces, 
were  mere  boys.  As  juveniles  on  the  stage  they 
might  have  been  earning  seventy-five  or  one  hundred 
or  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  week.  Here  they 
owned  estates,  motor  cars  in  fleets,  power  boats ;  had 
secretaries,  valets,  trainers.  Their  technique  was 
perfect  and  simple.  They  knew  their  work.  When 
they  kissed  a  girl,  or  entered  a  room,  or  gazed  after 
a  woman,  or  killed  a  man  in  the  presence  of  a  woman 
(while  working)  they  took  off  their  hats.  Turned 
slowly,  and  took  off  their  hats.  They  were  man 
nerly,  too,  outside  working  hours.  They  treated 
Harrietta  with  boyish  politeness — when  they  noticed 
her  at  all. 

"Oh,  won't  you  have  this  chair,  Miss  Fuller?  I 
didn't  notice  you  were  standing." 

They  didn't  notice  she  was  standing! 

"What  are  you  doing,  Miss — ah — Fuller?  Yes, 

you  did  say  Fuller.  Names Are  you  doing  a 

dowager  bit?" 

"Dowager  bit?" 

"I  see.  You're  new  to  the  game,  aren't  you?  I 
saw  you  working  to-day.  We  always  speak  of  these 
black- velvet  parts  as  dowager  bits.  Just  excuse 

me.  I  see  a  friend  of  mine "  The  friend  of 

mine  would  be  a  willow  wand  with  golden  curls,  and 


144  GIGOLO 

what  Harrietta  rather  waspishly  called  a  Gunga 
Din  costume.  She  referred  to  that  Kipling  descrip 
tion  in  which: 

The  uniform  'e  wore 

Was  notliin'  much  before, 

An*  rather  less  than  'arf  o*  that  be'ind. 

"They're  wearing  them  that  way  here  in  Holly 
wood,"  she  wrote  Ken.  She  wrote  Ken  a  good  many 
things.  But  there  were,  too,  a  good  many  things 
she  did  not  write  him. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  she  would  look  at  her 
check — and  take  small  comfort.  "You've  got 
everything  you  really  want  right  here,"  Ken  had 
said,  "if  you  only  knew  it." 

If  only  she  had  known  it. 

Well,  she  knew  it  now.  Now,  frightened,  bewil 
dered,  resentful.  Thirty-seven.  Why,  thirty-seven 
was  old  in  Hollywood.  Not  middle-aged,  or  getting 
on,  or  well  preserved,  but  old.  Even  Lydia  Lissome, 
at  twenty,  always  made  them  put  one  thickness  of 
chiffon  over  the  camera's  lens  before  she  would  let 
them  take  the  close-ups.  Harrietta  thought  of  that 
camera  now  as  a  cruel  Cyclops  from  whose  hungry 
eye  nothing  escaped — wrinkles,  crow's-feet — noth 
ing. 

They  had  been  working  two  months  on  the  picture. 
It  was  almost  finished.  Midsummer.  Harrietta's 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     145 

little  bungalow  garden  was  ablaze  with  roses, 
dahlias,  poppies,  asters,  strange  voluptuous  flowers 
whose  names  she  did  not  know.  The  roses,  plucked 
and  placed  in  water,  fell  apart,  petal  by  petal,  two 
hours  afterward.  From  her  veranda  she  saw  the 
Sierra  Madre  range  and  the  foothills.  She  thought 
of  her  "unexcelled  view  of  Park"  which  could  be  had 
by  flattening  one  ear  and  the  side  of  your  face 
against  the  window  jamb. 

The  sun  came  up,  hard  and  bright  and  white,  day 
after  day.  Hard  and  white  and  hot  and  dry.  "Like 
a  woman,"  Harrietta  thought,  "who  wears  a  red 
satin  gown  all  the  time.  You'd  wish  she'd  put  on 
gingham  just  once,  for  a  change."  She  told  her 
self  that  she  was  parched  for  a  walk  up  Riverside 
Drive  in  a  misty  summer  rain,  the  water  sloshing  in 
her  shoes. 

"Happy,  my  ducky?"  Irish  Mary  would  say, 
beaming  upon  her. 

"Perfectly,"  from  Harrietta. 

"It's  time,  too.  Real  money  you're  pullin'  down 
here.  And  a  paradise  if  ever  there  was  one." 

"I  notice,  though,  that  as  soon  as  they've  com 
pleted  a  picture  they  take  the  Overland  back  to  New 
York  and  make  dates  with  each  other  for  lunch  at 
the  Claridge,  like  matinee  girls." 

Irish  Mary  flapped  a  negligent  palm.  "Ah,  well, 
change  is  what  we  all  want,  now  and  then."  She 


146  GIGOLO 

looked  at  Harrietta  sharply.  "You're  not  wantin' 
to  go  back,  are  ye?" 

"N~no,"  faltered  Harrietta.  Then,  brazenly, 
hotly :  "Yes,  yes !"  ending,  miserably,  with :  "But  my 
contract.  Six  months." 

"You  can  break  it,  if  you're  fool  enough,  when 
they've  finished  this  picture,  though  why  you  should 

want  to "  Irish  Mary  looked  as  belligerent  as 

her  kindly  Celtic  face  could  manage. 

But  it  was  not  until  the  last  week  of  the 
filming  of  Let's  get  a  Husband  that  Harri 
etta  came  to  her  and  said  passionately:  "I  do! 
I  do!" 

"Do  what?"     Irish  Mary  asked,  blankly. 

"Do  want  to  break  my  contract.  You  said  I 
could  after  this  picture." 

"Sure  you  can.  They  hired  you  because  I  put 
Lyddy  up  to  askin'  them  to.  I'd  thought  you'd 
be  pleased  for  the  big  money  an'  all.  There's  no 
pleasin'  some." 

"It  isn't  that.  You  don't  understand.  To 
day " 

"Well,  what's  happened  to-day  that's  so  turrible, 
then?" 

But  how  could  Harrietta  tell  her?  "Today " 

she  began  again,  faltered,  stopped.  To-day,  you 
must  know,  this  had  happened :  It  was  the  Big  Scene 
of  the  film.  Lydia  Lissome,  in  black  lace  night- 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE 

gown  and  ermine  negligee,  her  hair  in  marcel  waves, 
had  just  been  "shot"  for  it. 

"Now  then,  Miss  Fuller,"  said  young  Garvey,  the 
director,  "you  come  into  the  garden,  see?  You've 
noticed  Joyce  go  out  through  the  French  window 
and  you  suspect  she's  gone  to  meet  Talbot.  V^e 
show  just  a  flash  of  you  looking  out  of  the  drawing- 
room  windows  into  the  garden.  Then  you  just 
glance  over  your  shoulder  to  where  your  husband  is 
sitting  in  the  library,  reading,  and  you  slip  away, 
see?  Then  we  jump  to  where  you  find  them  in  the 
garden.  Wait  a  minute" —  He  consulted  the 
sheaf  of  typewritten  sheets  in  his  hand — "yeh — here 
it  says:  'Joyce  is  keeping  her  tryst  under  the  great 
oak  in  the  garden  with  her  lover.'  Yeh.  Wait  a 
minute  .  .  .  'tryst  under  tree  with' — well,  you 
come  quickly  forward — down  to  about  here — and 
you  say :  'Ah,  there  you  are !' ' 

Harrietta  looked  at  him  for  a  long,  long  minute. 
Her  lips  were  parted.  Her  breath  came  quickly. 
She  spoke:  "I  say — what?" 

"You  say :  'Ah,  there  you  are.'  " 

"Nerer!"  said  Harrietta  Fuller,  and  brought  her 
closed  fist  down  on  her  open  palm  for  emphasis. 
"Never !" 

It  was  August  when  she  again  was  crossing  desert, 
plains,  and  farmlands.  It  was  the  tail-end  of  a 


148  GIGOLO 

dusty,  hot,  humid  August  in  New  York  when  Ken 
stood  at  the  station,  waiting.  As  he  came  forward, 
raising  one  arm,  her  own  arm  shot  forward  in  quick 
protest,  even  while  her  glad  eyes  held  his. 

"Don't  take  it  off!" 

"What  off?" 

"Your  hat.  Don't  take  it  off.  Kiss  me— but 
leave  your  hat  on." 

She  clutched  his  arm.  She  looked  up  at  him. 
They  were  in  the  taxi  bound  for  Fifty-sixth  Street. 
"She  moved?  She's  out?  She's  gone?  You  told 

her  I'd  pay  her  anything — a  bonus "  Then,  as 

he  nodded,  she  leaned  back,  relaxed.  Something  in 
her  face  prompted  him. 

"You're  young  and  beautiful  and  bewitching," 
said  Ken. 

"Keep  on  saying  it,"  pleaded  Harrietta.  "Make 
a  chant  of  it." 

Sam  Klein,  the  veteran,  was  the  first  to  greet  her 
when  she  entered  the  theatre  at  that  first  September 
rehearsal.  The  company  was  waiting  for  her. 
She  wasn't  late.  She  had  just  pleasantly  escaped 
being  unpunctual.  She  came  in,  cool,  slim;  electric. 
Then  she  hesitated.  For  the  fraction  of  a  second 
she  hesitated.  Then  Sam  Klein  greeted  her :  "Com 
pany's  waiting,  Miss  Fuller,  if  you're  ready."  And 
the  leading  man  came  forward,  a  flower  in  his  button 
hole,  carefully  tailored  and  slightly  yellow  as  a  lead- 


NOT  A  DAY  OVER  TWENTY-ONE     149 

ing  man  of  forty  should  be  at  10:30  A.  M.  "How 
wonderful  you're  looking,  Harrietta,"  he  said. 

Sam  Klein  took  her  aside.  "You're  going  to 
make  the  hit  of  your  career  in  this  part,  Miss  Fuller. 
Yessir,  dear,  the  hit  of  your  career.  You  mark 
my  words." 

"Don't  you  think,"  stammered  Harrietta — "don't 
you  think  it  will  take  someone — someone — younger 
• — to  play  the  part?" 

"Younger  than  what?" 

"Than  I." 

Sam  Klein  stared.  Then  he  laughed.  "Younger 
than  you !  Say,  listen,  do  you  want  to  get  the  Gerry 
Society  after  me?" 

And  as  he  turned  away  a  Young  Thing  with 
worshipful  eyes  crept  up  to  Harrietta's  side  and  said 
tremulously:  "Oh,  Miss  Fuller,  this  is  my  first 
chance  on  Broadway,  and  may  I  tell  you  how  happy 
I  am  to  be  playing  with  you  ?  You've  been  my  ideal 
ever  since  I  was  a — for  a  long,  long  time." 


HOME  GIRL 

WILSON  AVENUE,  Chicago,  is  not  merely 
an  avenue  but  a  district ;  not  only  a  dis 
trict  but  a  state  of  mind ;  not  a  state  of 
mind  alone  but  a  condition  of  morals.  For  that 
matter,  it  is  none  of  these  things  so  much  as  a  mode 
of  existence.  If  you  know  your  Chicago — which  you 
probably  don't — (sotto  voce  murmur,  Heaven  for 
bid!) — you  are  aware  that,  long  ago,  Wilson  Avenue 
proper  crept  slyly  around  the  corner  and  achieved  a 
clandestine  alliance  with  big  glittering  Sheridan 
Road ;  which  escapade  changed  the  demure  thorough 
fare  into  Wilson  Avenue  improper. 

WThen  one  says  "A  Wilson  Avenue  girl,"  the  mind 
— that  is,  the  Chicago  mind — pictures  immediately 
a  slim,  daring,  scented,  exotic  creature  dressed  in 
next  week's  fashions;  wise-eyed;  doll-faced;  rapa 
cious.  When  chiffon  stockings  are  worn  Wilson 
Avenue's  hosiery  is  but  a  film  over  the  flesh. 
Aigrettes  and  mink  coats  are  its  winter  uniform.  A 
feverish  district  this,  all  plate  glass  windows  and 
delicatessen  dinners  and  one-room-and-kitchenette 

150 


HOME  GIRL  151 

apartments,  where  light  housekeepers  take  their 
housekeeping  too  lightly. 

At  six  o'clock  you  are  likely  to  see  Wilson  Avenue 
scurrying  about  in  its  mink  coat  and  its  French 
heels  and  its  crepe  frock,  assembling  its  haphazard 
dinner.  Wilson  Avenue  food,  as  displayed  in  the 
ready-cooked  shops,  resembles  in  a  startling  degree 
the  Wilson  Avenue  ladies  themselves :  highly  col 
oured,  artificial,  chemically  treated,  tempting  to  the 
eye,  but  unnutritious.  In  and  out  of  the  food  em- 
poria  these  dart,  buying  dabs  of  this  and  bits  of  that. 
Chromatic  viands.  Vivid  scarlet,  orange,  yellow, 
green.  A  strip  of  pimento  here.  A  mound  of 
mayonnaise  there.  A  green  pepper  stuffed  with 
such  burden  of  deceit  as  no  honest  green  pepper  ever 
was  meant  to  hold.  Two  eggs.  A  quarter-pound 
of  your  best  creamery  butter.  An  infinitesimal  bot 
tle  of  cream.  "And  what  else?"  says  the  plump 
woman  in  the  white  bib-apron,  behind  the  counter. 
"And  what  else?"  Nothing.  I  guess  that'll  be  all. 
Mink  coats  prefer  to  dine  out. 

As  a  cripple  displays  his  wounds  and  sores, 
proudly,  so  Wilson  Avenue  throws  open  its  one- 
room  front  door  with  a  grandiloquent  gesture  as  it 
boasts,  "Two  hundred  and  fifty  a  month!"  Shy- 
lock,  purchasing  a  paper-thin  slice  of  pinky  ham 
in  Wilson  Avenue,  would  know  his  own  early  Venetian 
transaction  to  have  been  pure  philanthropy. 


152  GIGOLO 

It  took  Raymond  and  Cora  Atwater  twelve  years 
to  reach  this  Wilson  Avenue,  though  they  carried  it 
with  them  all  the  way.  They  had  begun  their  mar 
ried  life  in  this  locality  before  it  had  become  a  defi 
nite  district.  Twelve  years  ago  the  neighbourhood 
had  shown  no  signs  of  mushrooming  into  its  present 
opulence.  Twelve  years  ago  Raymond,  twenty- 
eight,  and  Cora,  twenty-four,  had  taken  a  six-room 
flat  at  Racine  and  Sunnyside.  Six  rooms.  Modern. 
Light.  Rental,  $28.50  per  month. 

"But  I  guess  I  can  manage  it,  all  right,"  Ray 
mond  had  said.  "That  isn't  so  terrible — for  six 
rooms." 

Cora's  full  under  lip  had  drawn  itself  into  a 
surprisingly  thin  straight  line.  Later,  Raymond 
came  to  recognize  the  meaning  of  that  labial  warn 
ing.  "We  don't  need  all  those  rooms.  It's  just 
that  much  more  work." 

"I  don't  want  you  doing  your  own  work.  Not 
unless  you  want  to.  At  first,  maybe,  it'd  be  sort 
of  fun  for  you.  But  after  a  while  you'll  want  a 
girl  to  help.  That'll  take  the  maid's  room  off  the 
kitchen." 

"Well,  supposing?  That  leaves  an  extra  room, 
anyway." 

A  look  came  into  Raymond's  face.  "Maybe  we'll 
need  that,  too — later.  Later  on."  He  actually 
could  have  been  said  to  blush,  then,  like  a  boy. 


HOME  GIRL  153 

There  was  much  of  the  boy  in  Raymond  at  twenty- 
eight. 

Cora  did  not  blush. 

Raymond  had  married  Cora  because  he  loved  her ; 
and  because  she  was  what  is  known  as  a  "home 
girl."  From  the  first,  business  girls — those  alert, 
pert,  confident  little  sparrows  of  office  and  shop  and 
the  street  at  lunch  hour — rather  terrified  him. 
They  gave  you  as  good  as  you  sent.  They  were 
always  ready  with  their  own  nickel  for  carfare.  You 
never  knew  whether  they  were  laughing  at  you  or 
not.  There  was  a  little  girl  named  Calhoun  in  the 
binoculars  (Raymond's  first  Chicago  job  was  with 
the  Erwin  H.  Nagel  Optical  Company  on  Wabash). 
The  Calhoun  girl  was  smart.  She  wore  those  plain 
white  waists.  Tailored,  Raymond  thought  they 
called  them.  They  made  her  skin  look  fresh  and 
clear  and  sort  of  downy-blooming  like  the  peaches 
that  grew  in  his  own  Michigan  state  back  home. 
Or  perhaps  only  girls  with  clear  fresh  skins  could 
^wear  those  plain  white  waist  things.  Raymond 
had  heard  that  girls  thought  and  schemed  about 
things  that  were  becoming  to  them,  and  then  stuck 
to  those  things.  He  wondered  how  the  Calhoun 
girl  might  look  in  a  fluffy  waist.  But  she  never 
wore  one  down  to  work.  When  business  was  dull 
in  the  motor  and  sun-glasses  (which  was  where  he 
held  forth)  Raymond  would  stroll  over  to  Laura 


154  GIGOLO 

Calhoun's  counter  and  talk.  He  would  talk  about 
the  Invention.  He  had  no  one  else  to  talk  to  about 
it.  No  one  he  could  trust,  or  who  understood. 

The  Calhoun  girl,  polishing  the  great  black  eyes 
of  a  pair  of  field  glasses,  would  look  up  brightly  to 
say,  "Well,  how's  the  Invention  coming  on?"  Then 
he  would  tell  her. 

The  Invention  had  to  do  with  spectacles.  Not 
only  that,  if  you  are  a  wearer  of  spectacles  of  any 
kind,  it  has  to  do  with  you.  For  now,  twelve  years 
later,  you  could  not  well  do  without  it.  The  little 
contraption  that  keeps  the  side-piece  from  biting 
into  your  ears — that's  Raymond's. 

Knowing,  as  we  do,  that  Raymond's  wife  is  named 
Cora  we  know  that  the  Calhoun  girl  of  the  fresh 
clear  skin,  the  tailored  white  shirtwaists,  and  the 
friendly  interest  in  the  Invention,  lost  out.  The 
reason  for  that  was  Raymond's  youth,  and  Ray 
mond's  vanity,  and  Raymond's  unsophistication,  to-' 
gether  with  Lucy  Calhoun's  own  honesty  and  effi 
ciency.  These  last  qualities  would  handicap  any 
girl  in  love,  no  matter  how  clear  her  skin  or  white 
her  shirtwaist. 

Of  course,  when  Raymond  talked  to  her  about 
the  Invention  she  should  have  looked  adoringly 
into  his  eyes  and  said,  "How  perfectly  wonderful! 
I  don't  see  how  you  think  of  such  things." 

What  she  said,  after  studying  its  detail  thought- 


HOME  GIRL  155 


fully  for  a  moment,  was:  "Yeh,  but  look.  If  this 
little  tiny  wire  had  a  spring  underneath — just  a 
little  bit  of  spring- — it'd  take  all  the  pressure  off 
when  you  wear  a  hat.  Now  women's  hats  are  worn 
so  much  lower  over  their  ears,  d'you  see?  That'd 
keep  it  from  pressing.  Men's  hats,  too,  for  that 
matter." 

She  was  right.  Grudgingly,  slowly,  he  admitted 
it.  Not  only  that,  he  carried  out  her  idea  and  per 
fected  the  spectacle  contrivance  as  you  know  it  to 
day.  Without  her  suggestion  it  would  have  had  a 
serious  flaw.  He  knew  he  ought  to  be  grateful.  He 
told  himself  that  he  was  grateful.  But  in  reality 
he  was  resentful.  She  was  a  smart  girl,  but — well 
— a  fella  didn't  feel  comfortable  going  with  a  girl 
that  knew  more  than  he  did.  He  took  her  to  the 
theatre — it  was  before  the  motion  picture  had  at 
tained  its  present-day  virulence.  She  enjoyed  it. 
So  did  he.  Perhaps  they  might  have  repeated  the 
little  festivity  and  the  white  shirtwaist  might  have 
triumphed  in  the  end.  But  that  same  week  Ray 
mond  met  Cora. 

Though  he  had  come  to  Chicago  from  Michigan 
almost  a  year  before,  he  knew  few  people.  The 
Erwin  H.  Nagel  Company  kept  him  busy  by  day. 
The  Invention  occupied  him  at  night.  He  read,  too, 
books  on  optometry.  Don't  think  that  he  was  a 
Hollo.  He  wasn't.  But  he  was  naturally  some- 


156  GIGOLO 

what  shy,  and  further  handicapped  by  an  unusually 
tall  lean  frame  which  he  handled  awkwardly.  If 
you  had  a  good  look  at  his  eyes  you  forgot  his  shy 
ness,  his  leanness,  his  awkwardness,  his  height.  They 
were  the  keynote  of  his  gentle,  studious,  kindly, 
humorous  nature.  But  Chicago,  Illinois,  is  too  busy 
looking  to  see  anything.  Eyes  are  something  you 
see  with,  not  into. 

Two  of  the  boys  at  Nagel's  had  an  engagement 
for  the  evening  with  two  girls  who  were  friends.  On 
the  afternoon  of  that  day  one  of  the  boys  went  home 
at  four  with  a  well-developed  case  of  grippe.  ^.The 
other  approached  Raymond  with  his  plea. 

"Say,  Atwater,  help  me  out,  will  you?  I  can't1 
reach  my  girl  because  she's  downtown  somewheres 
for  the  afternoon  with  Cora.  That's  her  girl  friend. 
And  me  and  Harvey  was  to  meet  'em  for  dinner,  see? 
And  a  show.  I'm  in  a  hole.  Help  me  out,  will 
you?  Go  along  and  fuss  Cora.  She's  a  nice  girl. 
Pretty,  too,  Cora  is.  Will  you,  Ray?  Huh?" 

Ray  went.  By  nine-thirty  that  evening  he  had 
told  Cora  about  the  Invention.  And  Cora  had 
turned  sidewise  in  her  seat  next  to  him  at  the  theatre 
and  had  looked  up  at  him  adoringly,  awe-struck. 
"Why,  how  perfectly  wonderful!  I  don't  see  how 
you  think  of  such  things." 

"Oh,  that's  nothing.  I  got  a  lot  of  ideas.  Things 
I'm  going  to  work  out.  Say,  I  won't  always  be 


HOME  GIRL  157 

plugging  down  at  Nagel's,  believe  me.  I  got  a  lot 
of  ideas." 

"Really!  Why,  you're  an  inventor,  aren't  you! 
Like  Edison  and  those.  My,  it  must  be  wonderful 
to  think  of  things  out  of  your  head.  Things  that 
nobody's  ever  thought  of  before." 

Ray  glowed.  He  felt  comfortable,  and  soothed, 
and  relaxed  and  stimulated.  And  too  large  for  his 
clothes.  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  just  think  of  things. 
That's  all  there  is  to  it.  That's  nothing." 

"Oh,  isn't  it!  No,  I  guess  not.  I've  never  been 
out  with  a  real  inventor  before  ...  I  bet  you 
think  I'm  a  silly  little  thing." 

He  protested,  stoutly.  "I  should  say  not."  A 
thought  struck  him.  "Do  you  do  anything?  Work 
downtown  somewrheres,  or  anything?" 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  lips  pouted.  Her  eye 
brows  made  pained  twin  crescents.  "No.  I  don't 
do  anything.  I  was  afraid  you'd  ask  that."  She 
looked  down  at  her  hands — her  white,  soft  hands 
with  little  dimples  at  the  finger-bases.  "I'm  just 
a  home  girl.  That's  all.  A  home  girl.  Now  you 
will  think  I'm  a  silly  stupid  thing."  She  flashed 
a  glance  at  him,  liquid-eyed,  appealing. 

He  was  surprised  (she  wasn't)  to  find  his  hand 
closed  tight  and  hard  over  her  soft  dimpled  one. 
He  was  terror-stricken  (she  wasn't)  to  hear  his  voice 
saying,  "I  think  you're  wonderful.  I  think  you're 


158  GIGOLO 

the  most  wonderful  girl  I  ever  saw,  that's  what." 
He  crushed  her  hand  and  she  winced  a  little.  "Home 
girl." 

Cora's  name  suited  her  to  a  marvel.  Her  hair 
was  black  and  her  colouring  a  natural  pink  and 
white,  which  she  abetted  expertly.  Cora  did  not  wear 
plain  white  tailored  waists.  She  wore  thin,  fluffy, 
transparent  things  that  drew  your  eyes  and  fired 
your  imagination.  Raymond  began  to  call  her 
Coral  in  his  thoughts.  Then,  one  evening,  it  slipped 
out.  Coral.  She  liked  it.  He  denied  himself  all 
luxuries  and  most  necessities  and  bought  her  a 
strand  of  beads  of  that  name,  presenting  them  to 
her  stammeringly,  clumsily,  tenderly.  Tender  pink 
and  cream,  they  were,  like  her  cheeks,  he  thought. 

"Oh,  Ray,  for  me !  How  darling !  You  naughty 
boy!  .  .  .  But  I'd  rather  have  had  those  clear 
white  ones,  without  any  colouring.  They're  more 
stylish.  Do  you  mind?" 

When  he  told  Laura  Calhoun  she  said,  "I  hope 
you'll  be  very  happy.  She's  a  lucky  girl.  Tell  me 
about  her,  will  you?" 

Would  he !     His  home  girl ! 

When  he  had  finished  she  said,  quietly,  "Oh,  yes." 

And  so  Raymond  and  Cora  were  married  and 
went  to  live  in  six-room  elegance  at  Sunnyside  and 
Racine.  The  flat  was  furnished  sumptuously  in 
Mission  and  those  red  and  browrn  soft  leather  cush- 


HOME  GIRL  159 

ions  with  Indian  heads  stamped  on  them.  There 
was  a  wooden  rack  on  the  wall  with  six  monks'  heads 
in  coloured  plaster,  very  life-like,  stuck  on  it.  This 
was  a  pipe-rack,  though  Raymond  did  not  smoke  a 
pipe.  He  liked  a  mild  cigar.  Then  there  was  a 
print  of  Gustave  Richter's  "Queen  Louise"  coming 
down  that  broad  marble  stair,  one  hand  at  her 
breast,  her  great  girlish  eyes  looking  out  at  you 
from  the  misty  folds  of  her  scarf.  What  a  lot  of 
the  world  she  has  seen  from  her  stairway!  The 
shelf  that  ran  around  the  dining  room  wall  on  a 
level  with  your  head  was  filled  with  steins  in  such 
shapes  and  colours  as  would  have  curdled  their  con 
tents — if  they  had  ever  had  any  contents. 

They  planned  to  read  a  good  deal,  evenings.  Im 
prove  their  minds.  It  was  Ray's  idea,  but  Cora 
seconded  it  heartily.  This  was  before  their  marriage. 

"Now,  take  history  alone,"  Ray  argued:  "Amer 
ican  history.  Why,  you  can  read  a  year  and  hardly 
know  the  half  of  it.  That's  the  trouble.  People 
don't  know  the  history  of  their  own  country.  And 
it's  interesting,  too,  let  me  tell  you.  Darned 
interesting.  Better'n  novels,  if  folks  only  knew 
it." 

"My,  yes,"  Cora  agreed.  "And  French.  We 
could  take  up  French,  evenings.  I've  always  wanted 
to  study  French.  They  say  if  you  know  French 
you  can  travel  anywhere.  It's  all  in  the  accent; 


160  GIGOLO 

and  goodness  knows  I'm  quick  at  picking  up  things 
like  that." 

"Yeh,"  Ray  had  said,  a  little  hollowly,  "yeh, 
French.  Sure." 

But,  somehow,  these  literary  evenings  never  did 
materialize.  It  may  have  been  a  matter  of  getting 
the  books.  You  could  borrow  them  from  the  public 
library,  but  that  made  you  feel  so  hurried.  History 
was  something  you  wanted  to  take  your  time  over. 
Then,  too,  the  books  you  wanted  never  were  in.  You 
could  buy  them.  But  buying  books  like  that ! 
Cora  showed  her  first  real  display  of  temper.  Why, 
they  came  in  sets  and  cost  as  much  as  twelve  or 
fifteen  dollars.  Just  for  books !  The  literary  even 
ings  degenerated  into  Ray's  thorough  scanning  of 
the  evening  paper,  followed  by  Cora's  skimming  of 
the  crumpled  sheets  that  carried  the  department 
store  ads,  the  society  column,  and  the  theatrical 
news.  Raymond  began  to  use  the  sixth  room — the 
unused  bedroom — as  a  workshop.  He  had  perfected 
the  spectacle  contrivance  and  had  made  the  mistake 
of  selling  his  rights  to  it.  He  got  a  good  sum  for  it. 

"But  I'll  never  do  that  again,"  he  said,  grimly. 
"Somebody'll  make  a  fortune  on  that  thing."  He 
had  unwisely  told  Cora  of  this  transaction.  She 
never  forgave  him  for  it.  On  the  day  he  received 
the  money  for  it  he  had  brought  her  home  a  fur  set 
of  baum  marten.  He  thought  the  stripe  in  it  beau- 


HOME  GIRL  161 


tiful.  There  was  a  neckpiece  known  as  a  stole,  and 
a  large  muff. 

"Oh,  honey!"  Cora  had  cried.  "Aren't  you  fun 
ny  !"  She  often  said  that,  always  with  the  same 
accent.  "Aren't  you  fun-ny\" 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  pick  it  out?  They're 
wearing  Persian  lamb  sets." 

"Oh.  Well,  maybe  the  feller'll  change  it.  It's 
all  paid  for,  but  maybe  he'll  change  it." 

"Do  you  mind?  It  may  cost  a  little  bit  more. 
You  don't  mind  my  changing  it  though,  do 
you?" 

"No.     No-o-o-o !     Not  a  bit." 

They  had  never  furnished  the  unused  bedroom  as 
a  bedroom.  When  they  moved  out  of  the  fiat  at 
Racine  and  Sunnyside  into  one  of  those  new  four- 
room  apartments  on  Glengyle  the  movers  found  only 
a  long  rough  work-table  and  a  green-shaded  lamp  in 
that  sixth  room.  Ray's  delicate  tools  and  imple 
ments  were  hard  put  to  it  to  find  a  resting  place  in 
the  new  four-room  apartment.  Sometimes  Ray 
j  worked  in  the  bathroom.  He  grew  rather  to  like  the 
white-tiled  place,  with  its  look  of  a  laboratory. 
But  then,  he  didn't  have  as  much  time  to  work  at 
home  as  he  formerly  had  had.  They  went  out  more 
evenings. 

The  new  four-room  flat  rented  at  sixty  dollars. 


162  GIGOLO 

"Seems  the  less  room  you  have  the  more  you  pay," 
Ray  observed. 

"There's  no  comparison.  Look  at  the  neighbour 
hood  !  And  the  living  room's  twice  as  big." 

It  didn't  seem  to  be.  Perhaps  this  was  due  to  its 
furnishings.  The  Mission  pieces  had  gone  to  the 
second-hand  dealer.  Ray  was  assistant  manager  of 
the  optical  department  at  Nagel's  now  and  he  was 
getting  royalties  on  a  new  smoked  glass  device. 
There  were  large  over-stuffed  chairs  in  the  new  living 
room,  and  a  seven-foot  davenport,  and  oriental  rugs, 
and  lamps  and  lamps  and  lamps.  The  silk  lamp 
shade  conflagration  had  just  begun  to  smoulder  in 
the  American  household.  The  dining  room  had  one 
of  those  built-in  Chicago  buffets.  It  sparkled  with 
cut  glass.  There  was  a  large  punch  bowl  in  the 
centre,  in  which  Cora  usually  kept  receipts,  old  bills, 
moth  balls,  buttons,  and  the  tarnished  silver  top  to  a 
syrup  jug  that  she  always  meant  to  have  repaired. 
Queen  Louise  was  banished  to  the  bedroom  where  she 
surveyed  a  world  of  cretonne. 

Cora  was  a  splendid  cook.  She  had  almost  a 
genius  for  flavouring.  Roast  or  cheese  souffle  or 
green  apple  pie — your  sense  of  taste  never  expe 
rienced  that  disappointment  which  comes  of  too  little 
salt,  too  much  sugar,  a  lack  of  shortening.  Expert 
as  she  was  at  it,  Cora  didn't  like  to  cook.  That  is, 
she  didn't  like  to  cook  day  after  day.  She  rather 


HOME  GIRL  163 

liked  doing  an  occasional  meal  and  producing  it  in 
a  sort  of  red-cheeked  triumph.  When  she  did  this 
it  was  an  epicurean  thing,  savoury,  hot,  satisfying. 
But  as  a  day-after-day  programme  Cora  would  not 
hear  of  it.  She  had  banished  the  maid.  Four 
rooms  could  not  accommodate  her.  A  woman  came 
in  twice  a  week  to  wash  and  iron  and  clean.  Often 
Cora  did  not  get  up  for  breakfast  and  Ray  got  his 
at  one  of  the  little  lunch  rooms  that  were  springing 
up  all  over  that  section  of  the  North  Side.  Eleven 
o'clock  usually  found  Cora  at  the  manicure's,  or  the 
dressmaker's,  or  shopping,  or  telephoning  luncheon 
arrangements  with^  one  of  the  Crowd.  Ray  and 
Cora  were  going  out  a  good  deal  with  the  Crowd. 
Young  married  people  like  themselves,  living  royally 
just  a  little  beyond  their  income.  The  women  were 
well-dressed,  vivacious,  somewhat  shrill.  They  liked 
stories  that  were  a  little  off-colour.  "Blue,"  one  of 
the  men  called  these  stories.  He  was  in  the  theatri 
cal  business.  The  men  were,  for  the  most  part,  a 
rather  drab-looking  lot.  Colourless,  good-natured, 
open-handed.  Almost  imperceptibly  the  Crowd  be 
gan  to  use  Ray  as  a  target  for  a  certain  raillery. 
It  wasn't  particularly  ill-natured,  and  Ray  did  not 
resent  it. 

"Oh,  come  on,  Ray!  Don't  be  a  wet  blanket. 
.  .  .  Lookit  him!  I  bet  he's  thinking  about 
those  smoked  glasses  again.  Eh,  Atwater?  He's  in 


164  GIGOLO 

a  daze  about  that  new  rim  that  won't  show  on  the 
glasses.  Come  out  of  it!  First  thing  you  know 
you'll  lose  your  little  Cora." 

There  was  little  danger  of  that.  Though  Cora 
flirted  mildly  with  the  husbands  of  the  other  girls 
in  the  Crowd  (they  all  did)  she  was  true  to  Ray. 

Ray  was  always  talking  of  building  a  little  place 
of  their  own.  People  were  beginning  to  move 
farther  and  farther  north,  into  the  suburbs.7 

"Little  place  of  your  own,"  Ray  would  say,  "that's 
the  only  way  to  live.  Then  you're  not  paying  it 
all  out  in  rent  to  the  other  feller.  Little  place  of 
your  own.  That's  the  right  idear." 

But  as  the  years  went  by,  and  Ray  earned  more 
and  more  money,  he  and  Cora  seemed  to  be  getting 
farther  and  farther  away  from  the  right  idear.  In 
the  $28.50  apartment  Cora's  morning  marketing  had 
been  an  orderly  daily  proceeding.  Meat,  vegetables, 
fruit,  dry  groceries.  But  now  the  maidless  four- 
room  apartment  took  on,  in  spite  of  its  cumbersome 
furnishings,  a  certain  air  of  impermanence. 

"Ray,  honey,  I  haven't  a  scrap  in  the  house.  I 
didn't  get  home  until  almost  six.  Those  darned  old 
street  cars.  I  hate  'em.  Do  you  mind  going  over 
Jo  Bauer's  to  eat?  I  won't  go,  because  Myrtle  served 
a  regular  spread  at  four.  I  couldn't  eat  a  thing. 
D'you  mind?" 

"Why,  no."     He  would  get  into  his  coat  again 


HOME  GIRL  165 

and  go  out  into  the  bleak  November  wind-swept 
street  to  Bauer's  restaurant. 

Cora  was  always  home  when  Raymond  got  there 
at  six.  She  prided  herself  on  this.  She  would  say, 
primly,  to  her  friends,  "I  make  a  point  of  being  there 
when  Ray  gets  home.  Even  if  I  have  to  cut  a  round 
of  bridge.  If  a  woman  can't  be  there  when  a  man 
gets  home  from  work  I'd  like  to  know  what  she's 
good  for,  anyway." 

The  girls  in  the  Crowd  said  she  was  spoiling  Ray 
mond.  She  told  Ray  this.  "They  thint  I'm  old- 
fashioned.  Well,  maybe  I  am.  But  I  guess  I 
never  pretended  to  be  anything  but  a  home  girl." 

"That's  right,"  Ray  would  answer.  "Say,  that's 
the  way  you  caught  me.  With  that  home-girl  stuff." 

"Caught  you!"  The  thin  straight  line  of  the 
mouth.  "If  you  think  for  one  minute " 

"Oh,  now,  dear.  You  know  what  I  mean,  sweet 
heart.  Why,  say,  I  never  could  see  any  girl  until 
I  met  you.  You  know  that." 

He  was  as  honestly  in  love  with  her  as  he  had 
been  nine  years  before.  Perhaps  he  did  not  feel 
now,  as  then,  that  she  had  conferred  a  favour  upon 
him  in  marrying  him.  Or  if  he  did  he  must  have 
known  that  he  had  made  fair  return  for  such  favour. 

Cora  had  a  Hudson  seal  coat  now,  with  a  great 
kolinsky  collar.  Her  vivid  face  bloomed  rosily  in 
this  soft  frame.  Cora  was  getting  a  little  heavier. 


166  GIGOLO 

-» 

Not  stout,  but  heavier,  somehow.  She  tried,  futilely, 
to  reduce.  She  would  starve  herself  at  home  for 
days,  only  to  gain  back  the  vanished  pounds  at  one 
afternoon's  orgy  of  whipped-cream  salad,  and  coffee, 
and  sweets  at  the  apartment  of  some  girl  in  the 
Crowd.  Dancing  had  come  in  and  the  Crowd  had 
taken  it  up  vociferously.  Raymond  was  not  very 
good  at  it.  He  had  not  filled  out  with  the  years. 
He  still  was  lean  and  tall  and  awkward.  The  girls 
in  the  crowd  tried  to  avoid  dancing  with  him.  That 
often  left  Cora  partnerless  unless  she  wanted  to 
dance  again  and  again  with  Raymond. 

"How  can  you  expect  the  boys  to  ask  me  to  dance 
when  you  don't  dance  with  their  wives!  Good 
heavens,  if  they  can  learn,  you  can.  And  for  pity's 
sake  don't  count!  You're  so  fun-ny\" 

He  tried  painstakingly  to  heed  her  advice,  but  his 
long  legs  made  a  sorry  business  of  it.  He  heard  one 
of  the  girls  refer  to  him  as  "that  giraffe."  He  had 
put  his  foot  through  an  absurd  wisp  of  tulle  that 
she  insisted  on  calling  a  train. 

They  were  spending  a  good  deal  of  money  now,  but 
Ray  jousted  the  landlord,  the  victualler,  the  fur 
rier,  the  milliner,  the  hosiery  maker,  valiantly  and 
still  came  off  the  victor.  He  did  not  have  as  much 
time  as  he  would  have  liked  to  work  on  the  new  in 
vention.  The  invisible  rim.  It  was  calculated  so 
to  blend  with  the  glass  of  the  lens  as  to  be,  in  ap- 


HOME  GIRL  16T 

pearance,  one  with  it,  while  it  still  protected  the  eye" 
glass  from  breakage.  "Fortune  in  it,  girlie,"  he 
would  say,  happily,  to  Cora.  "Million  dollars,  that's 
all." 

He  had  been  working  on  the  invisible  rim  for  five 
years.  Familiarity  with  it  had  bred  contempt  in 
Cora.  Once,  in  a  temper,  "Invisible  is  right,"  she 
had  said,  slangily. 

They  had  occupied  the  four-room  apartment  for 
five  years.  Cora  declared  it  was  getting  beyond 
her.  "You  can't  get  any  decent  help.  The  wash 
woman  acts  as  if  she  was  doing  me  a  favour  coming 
from  eight  to  four,  for  four  dollars  and  eighty-five 
cents.  And  yesterday  she  said  she  couldn't  come  to 
clean  any  more  on  Saturdays.  I'm  sick  and  tired 
of  it." 

Raymond  shook  a  sympathetic  head.  "Same  way 
down  at  the  store.  Seems  everything's  that  way 
now.  You  can't  get  help  and  you  can't  get  goods. 
You  ought  to  hear  our  customers.  Yesterday  I 
thought  I'd  go  clear  out  of  my  nut,  trying  to  pacify 
them." 

Cora  inserted  the  entering  wedge,  deftly.  "Good 
ness  knows  I  love  my  home.  But  the  way  things  are 
now  .  .  ." 

"Yeh,"  Ray  said,  absently.  When  he  spoke  like 
that  Cora  knew  that  the  invisible  rim  was  revolving 
in  his  mind.  In  another  moment  he  would  be  off  to 


168  GIGOLO 

the  little  cabinet  in  the  bathroom  where  he  kept  his 
tools  and  instruments. 

She  widened  the  opening.  "I  noticed  as  I  passed 
to-day  that  those  new  one-room  kitchenette  apart 
ments  on  Sheridan  will  be  ready  for  occupancy 
October  first."  He  was  going  toward  the  door. 
"They  say  they're  wonderful." 

"Who  wants  to  live  in  one  room,  anyway?" 

"It's  really  two  rooms — and  the  kitchenette. 
There's  the  living  room — perfectly  darling — and  a 
sort  of  combination  breakfast  room  and  kitchen. 
The  breakfast  room  is  partitioned  off  with  sort  of 
cupboards  so  that  it's  really  another  room.  And 
so  handy !" 

"How'd  you  know?" 

"I  went  in — just  to  look  at  tjrem — with  one  of 
the  girls." 

Until  then  he  had  been  unconscious  of  her  guile. 
But  now,  suddenly,  struck  by  a  hideous  suspicion — 
"Say,  looka  here.  If  you  think " 

"Well,  it  doesn't  hurt  to  look  at  'em,  does  it !" 

A  week  later.  "Those  kitchenette  apartments  on 
Sheridan  are  almost  all  gone.  One  of  the  girls  was 
looking  at  one  on  the  sixth  floor.  There's  a  view 
of  the  lake.  The  kitchen's  the  sweetest  thing.  All 
white  enamel.  And  the  breakfast  room  thing  is 
done  in  Italian." 

"What  d'you  mean — done  in  Italian?" 


HOME  GIRL  169 

"Why — uh — Italian  period  furniture,  you  know. 
Dark  and  rich.  The  living  room's  the  same.  Desk, 
and  table,  and  lamps." 

"Oh,  they're  furnished?" 

"Complete.  Down  to  the  kettle  covers  and  the 
linen  and  all.  The  work  there  would  just  be  play. 
All  the  comforts  of  a  home,  with  none  of  the  terrible 
aggravations." 

"Say,  look  here,  Coral,  we  don't  want  to  go  to 
work  and  live  in  any  one  room.  You  wouldn't  be 
happy.  Why,  we'd  feel  cooped  up.  No  room  to 
stretch.  .  .  .  Why,  say,  how  about  the  beds? 
If  there  isn't  a  bedroom  how  about  the  beds  ?  Don't 
people  sleep  in  those  places?" 

"There  are  Murphy  beds,  silly." 

"Murphy?     Who's  he?" 

"Oh,  goodness,  I  don't  know !  The  man  who  in 
vented  'em,  I  suppose.  Murphy." 

Raymond  grinned  in  anticipation  of  his  own  forth 
coming  joke.  "I  should  think  they'd  call  'em 
Morphy  beds."  Then,  at  her  blank  stare.  "You 
know — short  for  Morpheus,  god  of  sleep.  Learned 
about  him  at  high  school." 

Cora  still  looked  blank.  Cora  hardly  ever  under 
stood  Ray's  jokes,  or  laughed  at  them.  He  would 
turn,  chuckling,  to  find  her  face  a  blank.  Not  even 
bewildered,  or  puzzled,  or  questioning.  Blank.  Un 
heeding.  Disinterested  as  a  slate. 


170  GIGOLO 

Three  days  later  Cora  developed  an  acute  pain 
in  her  side.  She  said  it  was  nothing.  Just  worn 
out  with  the  work,  and  the  worry  and  the  aggrava 
tion,  that's  all.  It'll  be  all  right. 

Ray  went  with  her  to  look  at  the  Sheridan  Road 
apartment.  It  was  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 
"Phew !" 

"But  look  at  what  you  save?  Gas.  Light.  Maid 
service.  Laundry.  It's  really  cheaper  in  the 
end." 

Cora  was  amazingly  familiar  with  all  the  advan 
tages  and  features  of  the  sixth-floor  apartment. 
"The  sun  all  morning."  She  had  all  the  agent's 
patter.  "Harvey-Dickson  ventilated  double-spring 
mattresses.  Dressing  room  off  the  bathroom.  No, 
it  isn't  a  closet.  Here's  the  closet.  Range,  refrig 
erator,  combination  sink  and  laundry  tub.  Living 
room's  all  panelled  in  ivory.  Shower  in  the  bath 
room.  Buffet  kitchen.  Breakfast  room  has  fold 
ing-leaf  Italian  table.  Look  at  the  chairs.  Aren't 
they  darlings  !  Built-in  book  shelves " 

"Book  shelves?" 

"Oh,  well,  we  can  use  them  for  fancy  china  and 
ornaments.  Or — oh,  look! — you  could  keep  your 
stuff  there.  Tools  and  all.  Then  the  bathroom 
wouldn't  be  mussy  all  the  time." 

"Beds?" 

"Right  here.     Isn't  that  wonderful.     Would  you 


HOME  GIRL  171 

ever  know  it  was  there?  You  can  work  it  with  one 
hand.  Look." 

"Do  you  really  like  it,  Coral?" 

"I  love  it.     It's  heavenly." 

He  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  absurd  living  room, 
a  tall,  lank,  awkward  figure,  a  little  stooped  now. 
His  face  was  beginning  to  be  furrowed  with  lines — 
deep  lines  that  yet  were  softening,  and  not  unlovely. 
He  made  you  think,  somehow,  as  he  stood  there,  one 
hand  on  his  own  coat  lapel,  of  Saint-Gaudens'  fig 
ure  of  Lincoln,  there  in  the  park,  facing  the  Drive. 
Kindly,  thoughtful,  harried. 

They  moved  in  October  first. 

The  over-stuffed  furniture  of  the  four-room  apart 
ment  was  sold.  Cora  kept  a  few  of  her  own  things 
— a  rug  or  two,  some  china,  silver,  bric-a-brac, 
lamps.  Queen  Louise  was  now  permanently  de 
throned.  Cora  said  her  own  things — "pieces" — 
would  spoil  the  effect  of  the  living  room.  All  Italian. 

"No  wonder  the  Italians  sit  outdoors  all  the  time, 
on  the  steps  and  in  the  street" — more  of  Ray's  dull 
humour.  He  surveyed  the  heavy  gloomy  pieces,  so 
out  of  place  in  the  tiny  room.  One  of  the  chairs 
was  black  velvet.  It  was  the  only  really  comfort 
able  chair  in  the  room  but  Ray  never  sat  in  it.  It 
reminded  him,  vaguely,  of  a  coffin.  The  corridors 
of  the  apartment  house  were  long,  narrow,  and 
white-walled.  You  traversed  these  like  a  convict, 


172  GIGOLO 

speaking  to  no  one,  and  entered  your  own  cubicle. 
A  toy  dwelling  for  toy  people.  But  Ray  was  a 
man-size  man.  When  he  was  working  downtown 
his  mind  did  not  take  temporary  refuge  in  the 
thought  of  the  feverish  little  apartment  to  which  he 
was  to  return  at  night.  It  wasn't  a  place  to 
come  back  to,  except  for  sleep.  A  roost.  Bed 
ding  for  the  night.  As  permanent-seeming  as  a 
hay-mow. 

Cora,  too,  gave  him  a  strange  feeling  of  imperma- 
nence.  He  realized  one  day,  with  a  shock,  that  he 
hardly  ever  saw  her  with  her  hat  off.  When  he 
came  in  at  six  or  six-thirty  Cora  would  be  busy  at 
the  tiny  sink,  or  the  toy  stove,  her  hat  on,  a  ciga 
rette  dangling  limply  from  her  mouth.  Ray  did 
not  object  to  women  smoking.  That  is,  he  had  no 
moral  objection.  But  he  didn't  think  it  became 
them.  But  Cora  said  a  cigarette  rested  and  stim 
ulated  her.  "Doctors  say  all  nervous  women  should 
smoke,"  she  said.  "Soothes  them."  But  Cora, 
cooking  in  the  little  kitchen,  squinting  into  a  kettle's 
depths  through  a  film  of  cigarette  smoke,  outraged 
his  sense  of  fitness.  It  was  incongruous,  offensive. 
The  time,  and  occupation,  and  environment,  to 
gether  with  the  limply  dangling  cigarette,  gave  her 
an  incredibly  rowdy  look. 

When  they  ate  at  home  they  had  steak  or  chops, 
and,  perhaps,  a  chocolate  eclair  for  dessert;  and  a 


HOME  GIRL  173 

salad.  Raymond  began  to  eat  mental  meals.  He 
would  catch  himself  thinking  of  breaded  veal  chops, 
done  slowly,  simmeringly,  in  butter,  so  that  they 
came  out  a  golden  brown  on  a  parsley-decked  platter. 
With  this  mashed  potatoes  with  brown  butter  and 
onions  that  have  just  escaped  burning;  creamed 
spinach  with  egg  grated  over  the  top;  a  rice  pud 
ding,  baked  in  the  oven,  and  served  with  a  tart  crown 
of  grape  jell.  He  sometimes  would  order  these 
things  in  a  restaurant  at  noon,  or  on  the  frequent 
evenings  when  they  dined  out.  But  they  never 
tasted  as  he  had  thought  they  would. 

They  dined  out  more  and  more  as  spring  drew 
on  and  the  warm  weather  set  in.  The  neighbour 
hood  now  was  aglitter  with  eating  places  of  all  sorts 
and  degrees,  from  the  humble  automat  to  the  proud 
plush  of  the  Sheridan  Plaza  dining  room.  There 
were  tea-rooms,  cafeterias,  Hungarian  cafes,  chop 
suey  restaurants.  At  the  table  d'hote  places  you 
got  a  soup,  followed  by  a  lukewarm  plateful  of  meat, 
vegetables,  salad.  The  meat  tasted  of  the  vege 
tables,  the  vegetables  tasted  of  the  meat,  and  the 
salad  tasted  of  both.  Before  ordering  Ray  would 
sit  down  and  peer  about  at  the  food  on  the  near-by 
tables  as  one  does  in  a  dining  car  when  the  digestive 
fluids  have  dried  in  your  mouth  at  the  first  whiff 
through  the  doorway.  It  was  on  one  of  these  even 
ings  that  he  noticed  Cora's  hat. 


174  GIGOLO 

"What  do  you  wear  a  hat  for  all  the  time?3'  he 
asked,  testily. 

"Hat?" 

"Seems  to  me  I  haven't  seen  you  without  a  hat  in 
a  month.  Gone  bald,  or  something?"  He  was 
often  cross  like  this  lately.  Grumpy,  Cora  called 
it.  Hats  were  one  of  Cora's  weaknesses.  She  had  a 
great  variety  of  them.  These  added  to  Ray's  feeling 
of  restlessness  and  impermanence.  Sometimes  she 
wore  a  hat  that  came  down  over  her  head,  covering 
her  forehead  and  her  eyes,  almost.  The  hair  he 
used  to  love  to  touch  was  concealed.  Sometimes  he 
dined  with  an  ingenue  in  a  poke  bonnet;  sometimes 
with  a  senorita  in  black  turban  and  black  lace  veily 
mysterious  and  provocative;  sometimes  with  a  de 
mure  miss  in  a  wistful  little  turned-down  brim.  It 
was  like  living  with  a  stranger  who  was  always  about 
to  leave. 

When  they  ate  at  home,  which  was  rarely,  Ray 
tried,  at  first,  to  dawdle  over  his  coffee  and  his  mild 
cigar,  as  he  liked  to  do.  But  you  couldn't  dawdle 
at  a  small,  inadequate  table  that  folded  its  flaps  and 
shrank  into  a  corner  the  minute  you  left  it.  Every 
thing  in  the  apartment  folded,  or  flapped,  or  doubled, 
or  shot  in,  or  shot  out,  or  concealed  something  else, 
or  pretended  to  be  something  it  was  not.  It  was 
very  irritating.  Ray  took  his  cigar  and  his  evening 
paper  and  wandered  uneasily  into  the  Italian  living 


HOME  GIRL  175 

room,  doubling  his  lean  length  into  one  of  his  queer, 
angular  hard  chairs. 

Cora  would  appear  in  the  doorway,  hatted. 
"Ready?" 

"Huh?     Where  you  going?" 

"Oh,  Ray,  aren't  you  fun-ny  I  You  know  this  is 
the  Crowd's  poker  night  at  Lil's." 

The  Crowd  began  to  say  that  old  Ray  was  going 
queer.  Honestly,  didja  hear  him  last  week?  Talk 
ing  about  the  instability  of  the  home,  and  the 
home  being  the  foundation  of  the  state,  and  the 
country  crumbling?  Cora's  face  was  a  sight! 
I  wouldn't  have  wanted  to  be  in  his  boots  when 
she  got  him  home.  What's  got  into  him,  any 
way? 

Cora  was  a  Wilson  Avenue  girl  now.  You  saw  her 
in  and  out  of  the  shops  of  the  district,  expensively 
dressed.  She  was  almost  thirty-six.  Her  legs,  be 
neath  the  absurdly  short  skirt  of  the  day,  were 
slim  and  shapely  in  their  chiffon  hose,  but  her  upper 
figure  was  now  a  little  prominent.  The  scant,  brief 
skirt  fore-shortened  her;  gave  her  a  stork-like  ap 
pearance;  a  combination  of  girlishness  and  matron- 
liness  not  pleasing. 

There  were  times  when  Ray  rebelled.  A  peace- 
loving  man,  and  gentle.  But  a  man.  "I  don't 
want  to  go  out  to  eat.  My  God,  I'm  tired!  I 
want  to  eat  at  home." 


176  GIGOLO 

"Honey,  dear,  I  haven't  a  thing  in  the  house. 
Not  a  scrap." 

"I'll  go  out  and  get  something,  then.  What  d'you 
want?" 

"Get  whatever  looks  good  to  you.  I  don't  want 
a  thing.  We  had  tea  after  the  matinee.  That's 
what  made  me  so  late.  I'm  always  nagging  the 
girls  to  go  home.  It's  getting  so  they  tease  me 
about  it." 

i  He  would  go  foraging  amongst  the  delicatessen 
shops  of  the  neighbourhood.  He  saw  other  men, 
like  himself,  scurrying  about  with  moist  paper  pack 
ets  and  bags  and  bundles,  in  and  out  of  Leviton's, 
in  and  out  of  the  Sunlight  Bakery.  A  bit  of  ham. 
Some  cabbage  salad  in  a  wooden  boat.  A  tiny 
broiler,  lying  on  its  back,  its  feet  neatly  trussed, 
its  skin  crackly  and  tempting-looking,  its  white  meat 
showing  beneath  the  brown.  But  when  he  cut  into 
it  at  home  it  tasted  like  sawdust  and  gutta-percha. 
"And  what  else?"  said  the  plump  woman  in  the 
white  bib-apron  behind  the  counter.  "And  what 
else?" 

In  the  new  apartment  you  rather  prided  yourself 
on  not  knowing  your  next-door  neighbours.  The 
paper-thin  walls  permitted  you  to  hear  them  living 
the  most  intimate  details  of  their  lives.  You  heard 
them  laughing,  talking,  weeping,  singing,  scolding, 
caressing.  You  didn't  know  them.  You  did  not 


HOME  GIRL  177 


even  see  them.  When  you  met  in  the  halls  or  elevat 
ors  you  did  not  speak.  Then,  after  they  had  lived 
in  the  new  apartment  about  a  year  Cora  met  the 
woman  in  618  and  Raymond  met  the  woman  in  620, 
within  the  same  week.  The  Atwaters  lived  in  619. 

There  was  some  confusion  in  the  delivery  of  a 
package.  The  woman  in  618  pressed  the  Atwaters' 
electric  button  for  the  first  time  in  their  year's 
residence  there. 

A  plump  woman,  618 ;  blonde ;  in  black.  You  felt 
that  her  flesh  was  expertly  restrained  in  tight  pink 
satin  brassieres  and  long-hipped  corsets  and  many 
straps. 

"I  hate  to  trouble  you,  but  did  you  get  a  pack 
age  for  Mrs.  Hoyt?  It's  from  Field's." 

It  was  five-thirty.  Cora  had  her  hat  on.  She 
did  not  ask  the  woman  to  come  in.  "I'll  see.  I 
ordered  some  things  from  Field's  to-day,  too.  I 
haven't  opened  them  yet.  Perhaps  yours  .  .  . 
I'll  look." 

The  package  with  Mrs.  Hoyt's  name  on  it  was 
there.  "Well,  thanks  so  much.  It's  some  georgette 
crepe.  I'm  making  myself  one  those  new  two-tone 
slip-over  negligees.  Field's  had  a  sale.  Only  one 
sixty-nine  a  yard." 

Cora  was  interested.  She  sewed  rather  well  when 
she  was  in  the  mood.  "Are  they  hard  to  make?" 

"Oh,  land,  no !     No  trick  to  it  at  all.     They  just 


178  GIGOLO 

hang  from  the  shoulder,  see?  Like  a  slipover. 
And  then  your  cord  comes  round " 

She  stepped  in.  She  undid  the  box  and  shook 
out  the  vivid  folds  of  the  filmy  stuff,  vivid  green  and 
lavender.  "You  wouldn't  think  they'd  go  well  to 
gether  but  they  do.  Makes  a  perfectly  stunning 
negligee." 

Cora  fingered  the  stuff.  "I'd  get  some.  Only  I 
don't  know  if  I  could  cut  the " 

"I'll  show  you.  Glad  to."  She  was  very  friendly. 
Cora  noticed  she  used  expensive  perfume.  Her  hair 
was  beautifully  marcelled.  The  woman  folded  up 
the  material  and  was  off,  smiling.  "Just  let  me 
know  when  you  get  it.  I've  got  a  lemon  cream  pie 
in  the  oven  and  I've  got  to  run."  She  called  back 
over  her  shoulder.  "Mrs.  Hoyt." 

Cora  nodded  and  smiled.  "Mine's  Atwater." 
She  saw  that  the  woman's  simple-seeming  black 
dress  was  one  she  had  seen  in  a  Michigan  Avenue 
shop,  and  had  coveted.  Its  price  had  been  beyond 
her  purse. 

Cora  mentioned  the  meeting  to  Ray  when  he 
came  home.  "She  seems  real  nice.  She's  going  to 
show  me  how  to  cut  out  a  new  negligee." 

"What'd  you  say  her  name  was?"  She  told  him. 
He  shrugged.  "Well,  I'll  say  this :  she  must  be 
some  swell  cook.  Whenever  I  go  by  that  door  at 
dinner  time  my  mouth  just  waters.  One  night  last 


HOME  GIRL  179 

week  there  was  something  must  have  been  baked 
spare-ribs  and  sauerkraut.  I  almost  broke  in  the 
"door." 

The  woman  in  618  did  seem  to  cook  a  great  deal. 
That  is,  when  she  cooked.  She  explained  that  Mr. 
Hoyt  was  on  the  road  a  lot  of  the  time  and  when 
he  was  home  she  liked  to  fuss  for  him.  This  when 
she  was  helping  Cora  cut  out  the  georgette  negligee. 

"I'd  get  coral  colour  if  I  was  you,  honey.  With 
your  hair  and  all,"  Mrs.  Hoyt  had  advised  her. 

"Why,  that's  my  name!  That  is,  it's  what  Ray 
calls  me.  My  name's  really  Cora."  They  were 
quite  good  friends  now. 

It  was  that  same  week  that  Raymond  met  the 
woman  in  620.  He  had  left  the  apartment  half  an 
hour  later  than  usual  (he  had  a  heavy  cold,  and  had 
not  slept)  and  encountered  the  man  and  woman  just 
coming  out  of  620. 

"And  guess  who  it  was !"  he  exclaimed  to  Cora 
that  evening.  "It  was  a  girl  who  used  to  work  at 
Nagel's,  in  the  binoculars,  years  ago,  when  I  started 
there.  Calhoun,  her  name  was.  Laura  Calhoun. 
Smart  little  girl,  she  was.  She's  married  now.  And 
guess  what!  She  gets  a  big  salary  fitting  glasses 
for  women  at  the  Bazaar.  She  learned  to  be  an 
optician.  Smart  girl." 

Cora  bridled,  virtuously.  "Well,  I  think  she'd 
i  better  stay  home  and  take  care  of  that  child  of  hers. 


180  GIGOLO 

I  should  think  she'd  let  her  husband  earn  the  living. 
That  child  is  all  soul  alone  when  she  comes  home 
from  school.  I  hear  her  practising.  I  asked  Mrs. 
Hoyt  about  her.  She  say's  she's  seen  her.  A  pin- 
dling  scrawny  little  thing,  about  ten  years  old.  She 
leaves  her  alone  all  day." 

Ray  encountered  the  Calhoun  girl  again,  shortly 
after   that,    in   the    way    encounters    repeat    them-  | 
selves,  once  they  have  started. 

"She  didn't  say  much  but  I  guess  her  husband 
is  a  nit-wit.  Funny  how  a  smart  girl  like  that 
always  marries  one  of  these  sap-heads  that  can't 
earn  a  living.  She  said  she  was  working  because 
she  wanted  her  child  to  have  the  advantages  she'd 
missed.  That's  the  way  she  put  it." 

One  heard  the  long-legged,  melancholy  child  next  j 
door  practising  at  the  piano  daily  at  four.  Cora  j 
said  it  drove  her  crazy.  But  then,  Cora  was  rarely  ' 
home  at  four.  "Well,"  she  said  now,  virtuously,  "I  j 
don't  know  what  she  calls  advantages.  The  way  she  j 
neglects  that  kid.  Look  at  her!  I  guess  if  she] 
had  a  little  more  mother  and  a  little  less  education 
it'd  be  better  for  her." 

"Guess  that's  right,"  Ray  agreed. 

It  was  in  September  that  Cora  began  to  talk  about 
the  mink  coat.  A  combination  anniversary  and 
Christmas  gift.  December  would  mark  their  twelfth 
anniversary.  A  mink  coat. 


HOME  GIRL  181 

Raymond  remembered  that  his  mother  had  had  a 
mink  coat,  back  there  in  Michigan,  years  ago.  She 
always  had  taken  it  out  in  November  and  put  it 
away  in  moth  balls  and  tar  paper  in  March.  She 
had  done  this  for  years  and  years.  It  was  a  cheer 
ful  yellow  mink,  with  a  slightly  darker  marking  run 
ning  through  it,  and  there  had  been  little  mink  tails 
all  around  the  bottom  edge  of  it.  It  had  spread 
comfortably  at  the  waist.  Women  had  had  hips  in 
those  days.  With  it  his  mother  had  carried  a  mink 
muff;  a  small  yellow-brown  cylinder  just  big  enough 
for  her  two  hands.  It  had  been  her  outdoor  uniform, 
winter  after  winter,  for  as  many  years  as  he  could 
remember  of  his  boyhood.  When  she  had  died  the 
mink  coat  had  gone  to  his  sister  Carrie,  he  re 
membered. 

A  mink  coat.  The  very  words  called  up  in  his 
mind  sharp  winter  days;  the  pungent  moth-bally 
smell  of  his  mother's  fur-coated  bosom  when  she  had 
kissed  him  good-bye  that  day  he  left  for  Chicago; 
comfort;  womanliness.  A  mink  coat. 

"How  much  could  you  get  one  for?  A  mink 
coat." 

Cora  hesitated  a  moment.  "Oh — I  guess  you 
could  get  a  pretty  good  one  for  three  thousand." 

4<You're  crazy,"  said  Ray,  unemotionally.  He 
was  not  angry.  He  was  amused. 

But  Cora  was  persistent.     Her  coat  was  a  sight. 


182  GIGOLO 

She  had  to  have  something.  She  never  had  had  a 
real  fur  coat. 

"How  about  your  Hudson  seal?" 

"Hudson  seal !  Did  you  ever  see  any  seals  in  the 
Hudson !  Fake  fur.  I've  never  had  a  really  decent 
piece  of  fur  in  my  life.  Always  some  mangy  make- 
believe.  All  the  girls  in  the  Crowd  are  getting  new 
coats  this  year.  The  woman  next  door — Mrs.  Hoyt 
— is  talking  of  getting  one.  She  says  Mr.  Hoyt " 

"Say,  who  are  these  Hoyts,  anyway?" 

Ray  came  home  early  one  day  to  find  the  door  to 
618  open.  He  glanced  in,  involuntarily.  A  man 
sat  in  the  living  room — a  large,  rather  red-faced 
man,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  relaxed,  comfortable,  at 
ease.  From  the  open  door  came  the  most  tantaliz 
ing  and  appetizing  smells  of  candied  sweet  potatoes, 
a  browning  roast,  steaming  vegetables. 

Mrs.  Hoyt  had  run  in  to  bring  a  slice  of  fresh- 
baked  chocolate  cake  to  Cora.  She  often  brought 
in  dishes  of  exquisitely  prepared  food  thus,  but  Ray 
mond  had  never  before  encountered  her.  Cora  in 
troduced  them.  Mrs.  Hoyt  smiled,  nervously,  and 
said  she  must  run  away  and  tend  to  her  dinner. 
And  went.  Ray  looked  after  her.  He  strode  into 
the  kitchenette  where  Cora  stood,  hatted,  at  the 
sink. 

"Say,  looka  here,  Cora.  You  got  to  quit  seeing 
that  woman,  see?" 


HOME  GIRL  183 

"What  woman?" 

"One  calls  herself  Mrs.  Hoyt.  That  womam. 
Mrs.  Hoyt!  Ha!" 

"Why,  Ray,  what  in  the  world  are  you  talking 
about !  Aren't  you  fun-ny !" 

"Yeh;  well,  you  cut  her  out.  I  won't  have  you 
running  around  with  a  woman  like  that.  Mrs. 
Hoyt!  Mrs.  Fiddlesticks!" 

They  had  a  really  serious  quarrel  about  it.  When 
the  smoke  of  battle  cleared  away  Raymond  had  paid 
the  first  instalment  on  a  three  thousand  dollar  mink 
coat.  And,  "If  we  could  sub-lease,"  Cora  said,  "I 
think  it  would  be  wonderful  to  move  to  the  Shoreham. 
Lil  and  Harry  are  going  there  in  January.  You 
know  yourself  this  place  isn't  half  respectable." 

Raymond  had  stared.  "Shoreham!  Why,  it's  a 
hotel.  Regular  hotel." 

"Yes,"  placidly.  "That's  what's  so  nice  about  it. 
No  messing  around  in  a  miserable  little  kitchenette. 
You  can  have  your  meals  sent  up.  Or  you  can  go 
down  to  the  dining  room.  Lil  says  it's  wonderful. 
And  if  you  order  for  one  up  in  your  room  the  por 
tions  are  big  enough  for  two.  It's  really  economy, 
in  the  end." 

"Nix,"  said  Ray.  "No  hotel  in  mine.  A  little 
house  of  our  own.  That's  the  right  idear.  Build." 

"But  nobody's  building  now.  Materials  are  so 
high.  It'll  cost  you  ten  times  as  much  as  it  would  if 


184  GIGOLO 

i 

you  waited  a  few — a  little  while.  And  no  help.  No 
maids  coming  over,  hardly.  I  think  you  might  con 
sider  me  a  little.  We  could  live  at  the  Shoreham  a 
while,  anyway.  By  that  time  things  will  be  better, 
and  we'd  have  money  saved  up  and  then  we  might 
talk  of  building.  Goodness  knows  I  love  my  home 
as  well  as  any  woman " 

They  looked  at  the  Shoreham  rooms  on  the  after 
noon  of  their  anniversary.  They  were  having  the 
Crowd  to  dinner,  downtown,  that  evening.  Cora 
thought  the  Shoreham  rooms  beautiful,  though  she 
took  care  not  to  let  the  room-clerk  know  she  thought 
so.  Ray,  always  a  silent,  inarticulate  man,  was  so 
wordless  that  Cora  took  him  to  task  for  it  in  a 
sibilant  aside. 

"Ray,  for  heaven's  sake  say  something.  You 
stand  there!  I  don't  know  what  the  man'll  think." 

"A  hell  of  a  lot  I  care  what  he  thinks."  Ray  was 
looking  about  the  garish  room — plush  chairs,  heavy 
carpets,  brocade  hangings,  shining  table-top,  silly 
desk. 

"Two  hundred  and  seventy-five  a  month,"  the 
clerk  was  saying.  "With  the  yearly  lease,  of  course. 
Otherwise  it's  three  twenty-five."  He  seemed  quite 
indifferent. 

Ray  said  nothing.  "We'll  let  you  know,"  said 
Cora. 

The  man  walked  to  the  door.    "I  can't  hold  it  for 


HOME  GIRL  185 

you,  you  know.  Our  apartments  are  practically 
gone.  I've  a  party  who  practically  has  closed  for 
this  suite  already.  I'd  have  to  know." 

Cora  looked  at  Ray.  He  said  nothing.  He  seemed 
not  to  have  heard.  His  face  was  gaunt  and  hag 
gard.  "We'll  let  you  know — to-morrow,"  Cora  said. 
Her  full  under  lip  made  a  straight  thin  line. 

When  they  came  out  it  was  snowing.  A  sudden 
flurry.  It  was  already  dark.  "Oh,  dear,"  said 
Cora.  "My  hat !"  Ray  summoned  one  of  the  hotel 
taxis.  He  helped  Cora  into  it.  He  put  money  into 
the  driver's  hand. 

"You  go  on,  Cora.     I'm  going  to  walk." 

"Walk!  Why!  But  it's  snowing.  And  you'll 
have  to  dress  for  dinner." 

"I've  got  a  little  headache.  I  thought  I'd  walk. 
I'll  be  home.  I'll  be  home." 

He  slammed  the  door  then,  and  turned  away.  He 
began  to  walk  in  the  opposite  direction  from  that 
which  led  toward  the  apartment  house.  The  snow 
felt  cool  and  grateful  on  his  face.  It  stung  his 
cheeks.  Hard  and  swift  and  white  it  came,  blinding 
him.  A  blizzard  off  the  lake.  He  plunged  through 
it,  head  down,  hands  jammed  into  his  pockets. 

So.  A  home  girl.  Home  girl.  God,  it  was  funny. 
She  was  a  selfish,  idle,  silly,  vicious  woman.  She 
was  nothing.  Nothing.  It  came  over  him  in  a 
sudden  blinding  crashing  blaze  of  light.  The  wo- 


186  GIGOLO 

man  in  618  who  wasn't  married  to  her  man,  and  who 
cooked  and  planned  to  make  him  comfortable;  the 
woman  in  620  who  blindly  left  her  home  and  her  child 
every  day  in  order  to  give  that  child  the  thing  she 
called  advantages — either  of  these  was  better  than 
his  woman.  Honester.  Helping  someone.  Trying 
to,  anyway.  Doing  a  better  job  than  she  was. 

He  plunged  across  the  street,  blindly,  choking  a 
little  with  the  bitterness  that  had  him  by  the  throat. 

Hey !     Watcha ! A    shout    rising    to    a    scream. 

A  bump.      Numbness.     Silence.     Nothingness. 

"Well,  anyway,  Cora,"  said  the  girls  in  the  Crowd, 
"you  certainly  were  a  wonderful  wife  to  him.  You 
can  always  comfort  yourself  with  that  thought. 
My!  the  way  }TOU  always  ran  home  so's  to  be  there 
before  he  got  in." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Cora,  mournfully.  "I  always 
was  a  home  girl.  Why,  we  always  had  planned  we 
should  have  a  little  home  of  our  own  some  day.  He 
always  said  that  was  the  right  idear — idea." 

Lil  wiped  her  eyes.  "What  are  you  going  to  do 
about  your  new  mink  coat,  Cora?" 

Cora  brushed  her  hair  away  from  her  forehead 
with  a  slow,  sad  gesture.  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  I've 
hardly  thought  of  such  trifling  things.  The  woman 
next  door  said  she  might  buy  it.  Hoyt,  her  name  is. 
Of  course  I  couldn't  get  what  we  paid  for  it,  though 


HOME  GIRL 


187 


I've  hardly  had  it  on.  But  money'll  count  with  me 
now.  Ray  never  did  finish  that  invisible  rim  he  was 
working  on  all  those  years.  Wasting  his  time,, 
Poor  Ray.  ...  I  thought  if  she  took  it,  I'd  gel 
a  caracul,  with  a  black  fox  collar.  After  I  bought 
it  I  heard  mink  wasn't  so  good  anyway,  this  year. 
Everything's  black.  Of  course,  I'd  never  have  said 
anything  to  Raymond  about  it.  I'd  just  have  worn 
it.  I  wouldn't  have  hurt  Ray  for  the  world." 


AIN'T   NATURE   WONDERFUL! 

WHEN  a  child  grows  to  boyhood,  and  a 
boy  to  manhood  under  the  soul-searing 
^  ,    blight  of  a  given  name  like  Florian,  one 

of  two  things  must  follow.  He  will  degenerate  into 
a  weakling,  crushed  beneath  the  inevitable  diminutive 
— Flossie ;  or  he  will  build  up  painfully,  inch  by  inch, 
a  barrier  against  the  name's  corroding  action.  He 
will  boast  of  his  biceps,  flexing  them  the  while.  He 
will  brag  about  cold  baths.  He  will  prate  of  chest 
measurements ;  regard  golf  with  contempt ;  and  speak 
of  the  West  as  God's  country. 

Florian  Sykes  was  five  feet  three  and  a  half,  and 
he  liked  to  quote  those  red-blooded  virile  poems 
about  the  big  open  spaces  out  where  the  West  begins. 
The  biggest  open  space  in  his  experience  was  Mad 
ison  Square,  New  York;  and  Eighth  Avenue  spelled 
the  Far  West  for  him.  When  Florian  spoke  or 
thought  of  great  heights  it  was  never  in  terms  of 
nature,  such  as  mountains,  but  in  artificial  ones, 
like  skyscrapers.  Yet  his  job  depended  on  what  he 
called  the  great  outdoors. 

188 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        189 

The  call  of  the  wild,  by  the  time  it  had  filtered  into 
his  city  abode,  was  only  a  feeble  cheep.  But  he 
answered  it  daily  from  his  rooms  to  the  store  in  the 
morning,  from  the  store  to  his  rooms  in  the  evening. 
It  must  have  been  fully  ten  blocks  each  way.  There 
are  twenty  New  York  blocks  to  the  mile.  He  threw 
out  his  legs  a  good  deal  when  he  walked  and  came 
down  with  his  feet  rather  flat,  and  he  stooped  ever 
so  little  with  the  easy  slouch  that  came  in  with  the 
one-button  sack  suit.  It's  the  walk  you  see  used  by 
English  actors  of  the  what-what  school  who  come 
over  here  to  play  gentlemanly  juveniles. 

Down  at  Inverness  &  Heath's  they  called  him 
Nature's  Rival,  but  that  was  mostly  jealousy,  with 
a  strong  dash  of  resentment.  Two  of  the  men  in  his 
department  had  been  Maine  guides,  and  another 
boasted  that  he  knew  the  Rockies  as  he  knew  the 
palm  of  his  hand.  But  Florian,  whose  trail-finding 
had  all  been  done  in  the  subway  shuttle,  and  who 
thought  that  butter  sauce  with  parsley  was  a  trout's 
natural  element,  had  been  promoted  above  their 
heads  half  a  dozen  times  until  now  he  lorded  it  over 
the  fifth  floor. 

Not  one  of  you,  unless  bedridden  from  birth,  but 
has  felt  the  influence  of  the  firm  of  Inverness  &  Heath. 
You  may  never  have  seen  the  great  establishment 
itself,  rising  story  on  story  just  off  New  York's  main 
shopping  thoroughfare.  But  you  have  felt  the  call 


190  GIGOLO 

of  their  catalogue.  Surely  at  one  time  or  another, 
they  have  supplied  you  with  tents  or  talcum;  with 
sleeping-bags  or  skis  or  skates ;  with  rubber  boots,  or 
resin  or  reels.  On  their  fourth  floor  you  can  be 
hatted  for  Palm  Beach  or  booted  for  Skagway. 
On  the  third,  outfitted  for  St.  Moritz  or  San  An 
tonio.  But  the  fifth  floor  is  the  pride  of  the  store. 
There  is  the  camper's  dream  realized.  There  you 
will  find  man's  most  ingenious  devices  for  softening 
Mother  Nature's  flinty  bosom.  Mosquito-proof 
tents;  pails  that  will  not  leak;  fleece-lined  sleeping- 
bags  ;  cooking  outfits  made  up  of  pots  and  pans  of 
every  size,  each  shaped  to  disappear  mysteriously 
into  the  next,  like  a  conjurer's  outfit,  the  whole 
swallowed  up  by  a  magic  leather  case. 

Here  Florian  reigned.  If  you  were  a  regular  Inver 
ness  &  Heath  customer  you  learned  to  ask  for  him 
as  soon  as  the  elevator  tossed  you  up  to  his  domain. 
He  met  you  with  what  is  known  in  the  business  effi 
ciency  guides  as  the  strong  personality  greeting. 
It  consisted  in  clasping  your  hand  with  a  grip  that 
drove  your  ring  into  the  bone,  looking  you  straight 
in  the  eye,  registering  alert  magnetic  force,  and  pro 
nouncing  your  name  very  distinctly.  Like  this: 
hand-clasp  firm — straight  in  the  eye — "How  do  you 
do,  Mr.  Outertown.  Haven't  seen  you  since  last 
June.  How  was  the  trip  ?"  He  didn't  mean  to  be  a 
liar.  And  yet  he  lied  daily  and  magnificently  for 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        191 

years,  to  the  world  and  himself.  When,  for  example, 
in  the  course  of  purchasing  rods,  flies,  tents,  canoes, 
saddles,  boots,  or  sleeping-bags  of  him,  you  spoke 
of  the  delights  of  your  contemplated  vacation,  he 
would  say,  "That's  the  life.  I'm  a  Western  man, 
myself.  .  .  .  God's  country!"  He  said  it  with 
a  deep  breath,  and  an  exhalation,  as  one  who  pants 
to  be  free  of  the  city's  noisome  fumes.  You  felt  he 
must  have  been  born  with  an  equipment  of  chaps, 
quirts,  spurs,  and  sombrero.  You  see  him  flinging 
himself  on  a  horse  and  clattering  off  with  a  flirt  of 
hoofs  as  they  do  it  in  the  movies.  His  very  manner 
sketched  in  a  background  of  plains,  mountains,  six- 
shooters,  and  cacti. 

The  truth  of  it  was  Florian  Sykes  had  been  born 
in  Kenosha,  Wisconsin.  At  the  age  of  three  he  had 
been  brought  to  New  York  by  a  pair  of  inexpert  and 
migratory  parents.  Their  reasons  for  migrating 
need  not  concern  us.  They  must,  indeed,  have  been 
bad  reasons.  For  Florian,  at  thirteen,  a  spindle- 
legged  errand-boy  in  over-size  knickers,  a  cold  sore 
on  his  lip,  and  shoes  chronically  in  need  of  re 
soling,  had  started  to  work  for  the  great  sport 
ing  goods  store  of  Inverness  &  Heath. 

Now,  at  twenty-nine,  he  was  head  of  the  fifth 
floor.  The  cold  sore  had  vanished  permanently 
under  a  regime  of  health-food,  dumb-bells,  and  icy 
plunges.  The  shoes  were  bench-made  and  flawless. 


192  GIGOLO 

i  . 

If  the  legs  still  were  somewhat  spindling  their  cor 
rectly  creased  casings  hid  the  fact. 

There's  little  doubt  that  if  Florian  had  been 
named  Bill,  and  if  the  calves  of  his  legs  had  bulged, 
and  if,  in  his  youth,  he  had  gone  to  work  for  a  whole 
sale  grocer,  he  would  never  have  forged  for  himself 
a  coat  of  mail  whose  links  were  pretense  and  whose 
bolts  were  sham.  He  probably  would  have  been 
frankly  content  with  the  sight  of  an  occasional  ball- 
game  out  at  the  Polo  Grounds,  and  the  newspaper 
bulletins  of  a  prizefight  by  rounds.  But  here  he  was 
at  the  base  that  supplied  America's  outdoor  equip 
ment.  He  who  ^outfitted  mountaineers  must  speak 
knowingly  of  glaciers,  chasms,  crevices,  and  peaks. 
He  who  advised  canoeists  must  assume  wisdom  of 
paddles,  rapids,  currents,  and  portages.  He  whose 
sleeping  hours  were  spangled  with  the  clang  of  the 
street  cars  must  counsel  such  hardy  ones  as  were  pre 
paring  cheerfully  to  seek  rest  rolled  in  blankets 
before  a  camp-fire's  dying  embers.  And  so,  slowly, 
year  by  year,  in  his  rise  from  errand  to  stock  boy, 
from  stock  boy  to  clerk,  from  clerk  to  assistant 
manager,  thence  to  his  present  official  position,  he 
had  built  about  himself  a  tissue  of  innocent  lies. 
He  actually  believed  them  himself. 

Sometimes  a  customer  who  in  June  had  come  in  to 
purchase  his  vacation  supplies  with  the  city  pallor 
upon  him,  returned  in  September,  brown,  hard, 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        193 

energized,  to  thank  Florian  for  the  comfort  of  the 
outfit  supplied  him. 

"I  just  want  to  tell  you,  Sykes,  that  that  was  a 
great  little  outfit  you  sold  me.  Yessir !  Not  a 
thing  too  much,  and  not  a  thing  too  little,  either. 
Remember  how  I  kicked  about  that  air  mattress? 
Well,  say,  it  saved  my  life !  I  slept  like  a  baby  every 
night.  And  the  trip!  You've  been  there,  haven't 
you?" 

Florian  would  smile  and  nod  his  head.  His  grate 
ful  customer  would  clap  him  on  the  shoulder.  "Some 
pebble,  that  mountain!" 

"Get  to  the  top?"     Florian  would  ask. 

"Well,  we  didn't  do  the  peak.  That  is,  not  right 
to  the  top.  Started  to  a  couple  of  times,  but  the 
girls  got  tired,  and  we  didn't  want  to  leave  'em 
alone.  Pretty  stiff  climb,  let  me  tell  you,  young 
feller." 

"You  should  have  made  the  top." 

"Been  up,  have  you?" 

"A  dozen  times." 

"Oh,  well,  that's  your  business,  you  might  say. 
Next  time,  maybe,  we'll  do  it.  The  missus  says 
she  wants  to  go  back  there  every  year." 

Florian  would  shake  his  head.  "Oh,  you  don't 
want  to  do  that.  Have  you  been  out  to  Glacier? 
Have  you  done  the  Yellowstone  on  horseback  ?  Ever 
been  down  the  Grand  Canyon?" 


194  GIGOLO 

"Why— no— but " 

"You've  got  a  few  thrills  coming  to  you  then." 

The  sunburned  traveller  would  flush  mahogany. 
"That's  all  right  for  you  to  say.  But  I'm  110  cham 
ois.  But  it  was  a  great  trip,  just  the  same.  I 
want  to  thank  you." 

Then,  for  example,  Florian's  clothes.  He  had 
adopted  that  careful  looseness — that  ease  of  fit — 
that  skilful  sloppiness — which  is  the  last  word  in 
masculine  sartorial  smartness.  In  talking  he  dropped 
his  final  g's  and  said  "sportin' "  and  "mountain 
climbin'  "  and  "shootin'."  From  June  until  Septem 
ber  he  wore  those  Norfolk  things  with  bow  ties,  and 
his  shirt  patterns  were  restrained  to  the  point  of 
austerity.  A  signet  ring  with  a  large  scrolled  mono 
gram  on  the  third  finger  of  his  right  hand  was  his 
only  ornament,  and  he  had  worn  a  wrist  watch  long 
before  the  War.  He  had  never  seen  a  mountain. 
The  ocean  meant  Coney  Island.  He  breakfasted 
at  Child's.  He  spent  two  hours  over  the  Sunday 
papers.  He  was  a  Tittlebat  Titmouse  without  the 
whiskers.  And  Myra  loved  him. 

If  Florian  had  not  pretended  to  be  something  he 
wasn't;  and  if  he  had  not  professed  an  enthusiastic 
knowledge  of  things  of  which  he  was  ignorant,  he 
would,  in  the  natural  course  of  events,  have  loved 
Myra  quickly  in  return.  In  fact,  he  would  have  ad 
mitted  that  he  had  loved  her  first,  and  desperately. 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        195 

And  there  would  have  been  no  story  entitled,  "Ain't 
Nature  Wonderful !" 

Myra  worked  in  the  women's  and  misses',  third 
floor,  and  she  didn't  care  a  thing  about  the  big  out 
doors  or  the  great  open  spaces.  She  didn't  even 
pretend  to — at  first.  A  clear-eyed,  white-throated, 
capable  young  woman,  almost  poignantly  pretty. 
You  sensed  it  was  the  kind  of  loveliness  that  fades 
a  bit  with  marriage.  In  its  place  come  two  sturdy 
babies  to  carry  on  the  torch  of  beauty.  You  sensed, 
too,  that  Myra  would  keep  their  noses  wiped,  their 
knees  scrubbed,  and  their  buttons  buttoned  and 
that,  between  a  fresh  blouse  for  herself  and  fresh 
rompers  for  them,  the  blouse  would  always  lose. 

She  hated  discomfort,  did  Myra,  as  does  one  who 
has  always  had  too  much  of  it.  After  you  have 
stood  all  day,  from  8:30  A.  M.  to  5:30  p.  M.,  selling 
sweaters,  riding  togs,  golf  clothes,  and  trotteurs  to 
athletic  Dianas  whose  lines  are  more  lathe  than  lithe, 
you  can't  work  up  much  enthusiasm  about  exercis 
ing  for  the  pure  joy  of  it.  Myra  had  never  used  a 
tennis-racket  in  her  life,  but  daily  she  outfitted  for 
the  sport  bronzed  young  ladies  who  packed  a  nasty 
back-hand  wallop  in  their  right.  She  wore  (and  was 
justly  proud  of)  a  4-A  shoe,  and  took  a  good  deal 
of  comfort  in  the  fact  as  she  sold  7-Cs  at  $22.50  a 
pair  to  behemothian  damsels  who  possessed  money 
in  proportion  to  Myra's  beauty.  Myra  was  the 


196  GIGOLO 

only  girl  in  her  section  who  never  tried  to  dress  in 
imitation  of  the  moneyed  ones  whom  she  served. 
The  other  girls  were  wont  to  wear  severely  tailored 
shirts,  mannish  ties,  stocks,  fiat-heeled  shoes,  rough 
tweed  skirts.  Not  so  Myra.  That  delicate  cup- 
like  hollow  at  the  base  of  her  white  throat  was  fit 
tingly  framed  in  a  ruffle  of  frilly  georgette.  She 
did  her  hair  in  soft  undulations  that  flowed  away 
from  forehead  and  temple,  and  she  powdered  her 
nose  a  hundred  times  a  day.  Her  little  shoes  were 
high-heeled  and  her  hands  were  miraculously  white, 
and  if  you  prefer  Rosalind  to  Viola  you'd  better  quit 
her  now. 

"Anybody  who  wants  to  wear  those  cross-country 
clothes  is  welcome  to  them,"  she  said.  "I'm  a  girl 
and  I'm  satisfied  to  be.  I  don't  see  why  I  should 
wear  a  hard-boiled  shirt  and  a  necktie  any  more  than 
a  man  should  wear  a  pink  georgette  trimmed  with 
filet.  By  the  end  of  the  week,  when  I've  spent  six 
solid  days  selling  men's  clothes  to  women,  I  feel's 
if  I'd  die  happy  if  I  could  take  a  milk  bath  and  put 
on  white  satin  and  pearls  and  a  train  six  yards 
long  from  the  shoulders — you  know." 

Not  the  least  of  Myra's  charm  was  a  certain  un 
expected  and  pleasing  humour.  It  was  as  though, 
on  opening  a  chocolate  box,  you  were  to  find  it 
contained  caviar. 

Of  course  by  now  you  know  that  Myra  is  the  girl 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        197 

you  used  to  see  smiling  out  at  you  from  the  Inver 
ness  &  Heath  catalogue  entitled  Sportswomen's 
Apparel.  The  head  of  her  department  had  soon 
discovered  that  Myra,  posing  for  illustrations  to 
be  used  in  the  spring  booklet,  raised  that  pamphlet's 
selling  power  about  100  per  cent.  Sunburned 
misses,  with  wind-ravaged  complexions,  gazing  at 
the  picture  of  Myra,  cool,  slim,  luscious-looking,  saw 

themselves  as  they  would  fain  be and  bought  the 

Knollwood  sweater  depicted — in  silk  or  wool — 
putty,  maize,  navy,  rose,  copen,  or  white — $35. 
Myra  posed  in  paddock  coat  and  breeches — she  who 
had  never  been  nearer  a  horse  than  the  distance 
between  sidewalk  and  road.  She  smiled  at  you 
over  her  shoulder  radiant  in  a  white  tricot  Palm 
Beach  suit,  who  thought  palms  grew  in  jardinieres 
only.  On  page  17  she  was  revealed  in  the  boy 
ish  impudence  of  our  Aiken  Polo  Habit,  complete, 
$90.  She  was  ravishing  in  her  golf  clothes,  her 
small  feet  in  sturdy,  flat-heeled  boots  planted  far 
apart,  and  only  the  most  carping  would  have  com 
mented  on  the  utter  impossibility  of  her  stance. 
Then  there  was  the  Killiecrankie  Travel  Tog  (back 
ground  of  assorted  mountains)  made  of  Scotch 
tweed  (she  would  never  come  nearer  Scotland  than 
oatmeal  for  breakfast)  only  $140.  To  say  nothing 
of  motor  clothes,  woodland  suits,  trap-shooting 
costumes,  Yellowstone  Park  outfits,  hunting  habits. 


198  GIGOLO 

She  wore  brogues,  and  boots,  and  skating  shoes, 
and  puttees  and  tennis  ties ;  sou'westers,  leather  top 
coats,  Jersey  silks,  military  capes.  You  saw  her 
fishing,  hunting,  boating,  riding,  golfing,  snow-shoe 
ing,  swimming.  She  was  equally  lovely  in  khaki  with 
woollen  stockings,  or  in  a  habit  of  white  linen  and  the 
shiniest  of  riding-boots.  And  as  she  peeled  off  the 
one  to  put  on  the  next  she  remarked  wearily,  "A 
kimono  and  felt  slippers  and  my  hair  down  my  back 
will  look  pretty  good  to  me  to-night,  after  this." 

You  see,  Myra  and  Florian  really  had  so  much 
in  common  that  if  he  had  been  honest  with  himself 
the  course  of  their  love  would  have  run  too  smooth 
to  be  true.  But  Florian,  in  his  effort  to  register 
as  a  two-fisted,  hard-riding,  nature-taming  male, 
made  such  a  success  of  it  that  for  a  long  time  he 
deceived  even  Myra  who  loved  him.  And  during 
that  time  she,  too,  lied  in  her  frantic  effort  to  match 
her  step  with  his.  When  he  talked  of  riding  and 
swimming;  of  long,  hard  mountain  hikes;  of  impene 
trable  woods,  she  looked  at  him  with  sparkling  eyes. 
(She  didn't  need  to  throw  much  effort  into  that,  na 
ture  having  supplied  her  with  the  ground  materials.) 
When,  on  their  rare  Sundays  together,  he  suggested 
a  long  tramp  up  the  Palisades  she  agreed  enthusias 
tically,  though  she  hated  it.  Not  only  that,  she 
went,  loathing  it.  The  stones  hurt  her  feet.  Her 
slender  ankles  ached.  The  sun  burned  her  delicate 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        199 

skin.  The  wind  pierced  her  thin  coat.  Florian 
strode  along  with  the  exaggerated  step  of  the  short 
man  who  bitterly  resents  his  lack  of  stature.  Every 
now  and  then  he  stood  still,  and  breathed  deeply, 
and  said,  "Glorious !"  And  Myra  looked  at  his 
straight  back,  and  his  clear-cut  profile,  and  his  well- 
dressed  legs  and  said,  "Isn't  it !"  and  wished  he  would 
kiss  her.  But  he  never  did. 

In  between  times  he  bemoaned  his  miserable  two 
weeks'  vacation  which  made  impossible  the  sort  of 
thing  he  said  he  craved — a  long,  hard,  rough  trip 
into  a  mountain  interior.  The  Rockies,  preferably, 
in  their  jaggedest  portions. 

"That's  the  kind  of  thing  that  makes  a  fellow 
over.  Roughing  it.  You  forget  about  the  city.  In 
the  saddle  all  day — nothing  but  sky  and  mountains. 
God's  big  open  spaces  !  That's  the  life !" 

Myra  trudged  along,  painfully.  "But  isn't  it 
awfully  uncomfortable?  You  know.  Cold?  And 
tents  ?  I  don't  think  I'd  like " 

"I  wouldn't  give  a  cent  for  a  person  who  was  so 
soft  they  couldn't  stand  roughing  it  a  little.  That's 
the  trouble  with  you  Easterners.  Soft!  No  red 
blood.  Too  many  street  cars,  and  high  buildings, 
and  restaurants.  Chop  down  a  few  trees  and  fry 
your  own  bacon,  and  make  your  own  camp,  and  sad 
dle  your  own  horses — that's  what  I  call  living.  I'm 
going  back  to  it  some  day,  see  if  I  don't." 


200  GIGOLO 

Myra  looked  down  at  her  own  delicate  wrists,  with 
the  blue  veins  so  exquisitely  etched  against  the  white 
flesh.  A  little  look  of  terror  and  hopelessness  came 
into  her  eyes. 

"I — I  couldn't  chop  down  a  tree,"  she  said.  She 
was  panting  a  little  in  keeping  up  with  him,  for  he 
was  walking  very  fast.  "I'd  be  afraid  to  saddle  a 
horse.  You  have  to  stand  right  next  to  them,  don't 
you?  Most  girls  can't  chop " 

Florian  smiled  a  little  superior  smile.  "Miss  Jessie 
Heath  can."  Myra  looked  up  at  him,  quickly. 
"She's  a  wonder!  She  was  in  yesterday,"  he  went 
on.  "Spent  all  of  two  hours  up  in  my  department, 
looking  things  over.  There's  nothing  she  can't  do. 
She  won  a  blue  ribbon  at  the  Horse  Show  in  Feb 
ruary.  Saddle.  She's  climbed  every  peak  that 
amounts  to  anything  in  Europe.  Did  the  Alps 
when  she  was  a  little  girl.  This  summer  she's  going 
to  do  the  Rockies,  because  things  are  so  mussed  up 
in  Europe,  she  says.  I'm  selecting  the  outfit  for  the 
party.  Gad,  what  a  trip !"  He  sighed,  deeply. 

Myra  was  silent.  She  was  not  ungenerous  toward 
women,  as  are  so  many  pretty  girls.  But  she  was 
human,  after  all,  and  she  did  love  this  Florian,  and 
Jessie  Heath  was  old  man  Heath's  daughter. 
Whenever  she  came  into  the  store  she  created  a  little 
furore  among  the  clerks.  Myra  could  not  resist  a 
tinv  flash  of  claws. 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        201 

"She's  flat,  like  a  man.  And  she  wears  7%-C. 
And  her  face  looks  as  if  it  had  been  rubbed  with  a 
scouring  brick." 

"She's  a  goddess!"  said  Florian,  striding  along. 
Myra  laughed,  a  little  high  hysterical  laugh.  Then 
she  bit  her  lip,  and  then  she  was  silent  for  a  long 
time.  He  was  silent,  too,  until  suddenly  he  heard 
a  little  sound  that  made  him  turn  quickly  to  look 
at  her  stumbling  along  at  his  side.  And  she  was 
crying. 

"Why— what's  the  matter !     What's  ! " 

"I'm  tired,"  sobbed  Myra,  and  sank  in  a  little  limp 
heap  on  a  convenient  rock.  "I'm  tired.  I  want  to 
go  home." 

"Why" — he  was  plainly  bewildered — "why  didn't 
you  tell  me  you  were  tired!" 

"I'm  telling  you  now." 

They  took  the  nearest  ferry  across  the  river, 
and  the  Subway  home.  At  the  entrance  to  the  noisy, 
crowded  flat  in  which  she  lived  Myra  turned  to  face 
him.  She  was  through  with  pretense.  She  was 
tired  of  make-believe.  She  felt  a  certain  relief  in 
the  thought  of  what  she  had  to  say.  She  faced 
him  squarely. 

"I've  lived  in  the  city  all  my  life  and  I'm  crazy 
about  it.  I  love  it.  I  like  to  walk  in  the  park  a 
little  maybe,  Sundays,  but  I  hate  tramping  like 
we  did  this  afternoon,  and  you  might  as  well  know 


202  GIGOLO 

it.  I  wouldn't  chop  down  a  tree,  not  if  I  was  freez 
ing  to  death,  and  I'd  hate  to  have  to  sleep  in  a  tent, 
so  there!  I  hate  sunburn,  and  freckles,  and  ants 
in  the  pie,  and  blisters  on  my  feet,  and  getting  wet, 
and  flat-heeled  shoes,  and  I  never  saddled  a  horse. 
I'd  be  afraid  to.  And  what's  more,  I  don't  believe 
you  do,  either." 

"Don't  believe  I  do  what?"  asked  Florian  in  a 
stunned  kind  of  voice. 

But  Myra  had  turned  and  left  him.  And  as  he 
stood  there,  aghast,  bewildered,  resentful,  clear  and 
fair  in  the  back  of  his  mind,  against  all  the  turmoil 
of  thoughts  that  seethed  there,  was  the  picture  of  her 
white,  slim,  exquisite  throat  with  a  little  delicate 
pulse  beating  in  it  as  she  cried  out  her  rebellion.  He 
wished — or  some  one  inside  him  that  he  could  not 
control  wished — that  he  could  put  his  fingers  there 
on  her  throat,  gently. 

It  was  very  warm  that  evening,  for  May.  And 
as  he  sat  by  the  window  in  his  pajamas,  just  before 
going  to  bed,  he  thought  about  Myra,  and  he 
thought  about  himself.  But  when  he  thought  about 
himself  he  slammed  the  door  on  what  he  saw.  Flor- 
ian's  rooms  were  in  Lexington  Avenue  in  the  old 
brownstone  district  that  used  to  be  the  home  of 
white-headed  millionaires  with  gold-headed  canes, 
who,  on  dying,  left  their  millions  to  an  Alger  news 
boy  who  had  once  helped  them  across  the  street. 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        203 

Millionaires,  gold-headed  canes,  and  newsboys  had 
long  vanished,  and  the  old  brownstone  fronts  were 
rooming  houses  now,  interspersed  with  delicatessens, 
interior  decorators,  and  dressmaking  establishments. 
Florian  was  fond  of  boasting  when  he  came  down  to 
the  store  in  the  morning,  after  a  hot,  muggy  July 
night,  "My  place  is  like  a  summer  resort.  Breeze 
just  sweeps  through  it.  I  have  to  have  the  covers 
on." 

Sometimes  Mrs.  Pet,  his  landlady,  made  him  a 
pitcher  of  lemonade  and  brought  it  up  to  him,  and 
he  sipped  it,  looking  out  over  the  city,  soothed  by 
its  roar,  fascinated  by  its  glow  and  brilliance.  Mrs. 
Pet  said  it  was  a  pleasure  to  have  him  around,  he 
was  so  neat. 

Florian  was  neat.  Not  only  neat,  but  methodical. 
He  had  the  same  breakfast  every  week-day  morning 
at  Child's;  half  a  grapefruit,  one  three-minute  egg, 
coffee,  rolls.  On  Sunday  morning  he  had  bacon  and 
eggs.  It  was  almost  automatic.  Speaking  of  auto 
matics,  he  never  took  his  meals  at  one  of  those 
modern  mechanical  feeders.  Though  at  Child's  he 
never  really  beheld  the  waitress  with  his  seeing  eye, 
he  liked  to  have  her  slap  his  dishes  down  before  him 
with  a  genial  crash.  A  gentleman  has  his  little 
foibles,  and  being  waited  on  at  meal-time  was  one 
of  his.  Occasionally,  to  prove  to  himself  that  he 
wasn't  one  of  those  fogies  who  get  in  a  rut,  he  or- 


204  GIGOLO 

dered  wheat  cakes  with  maple  syrup  for  breakfast. 
They  always  disagreed  with  him. 

She  was  a  wise  young  woman,  Myra. 

Perhaps  Florian,  as  he  sat  by  his  window  that 
Sunday  night  of  Myra's  outburst,  thought  on  these 
things.  But  he  would  not  admit  to  himself  whither 
his  thinking  led.  And  presently  he  turned  back 
the  spread,  neatly,  and  turned  out  the  light,  and 
opened  the  window  a  little  wider,  and  felt  of  his 
chin,  as  men  do,  though  the  next  shave  is  eight 
hours  distant,  and  slept,  and  did  not  dream 
of  white  throats  as  he  had  secretly  hoped  he 
would. 

And  next  morning,  at  eleven,  a  very  wonderful 
thing  began  to  happen.  Next  morning,  at  eleven, 
Miss  Jessie  Heath  loped  (well,  it  can't  be  helped. 
That  describes  it  exactly)  into  the  broad  aisles  of 
the  fifth  floor.  She  had  been  coming  in  a  great 
deal,  lately.  The  Western  trip,  no  doubt. 

Descriptions  of  people  are  clumsy  things,  at  best, 
and  stop  one's  story.  But  Jessie  Heath  must  have 
her  paragraph.  A  half-dozen  lines  ought  to  do  it. 
Well — she  was  the  kind  of  girl  who  always  goes 
around  with  a  couple  of  Airedales,  and  in  woollen 
stockings,  low  shoes  and  mannish  shirts,  and  shell- 
rimmed  glasses,  and  you  felt  she  wore  Ferris  waists. 
Her  hair  was  that  ashen  blonde  with  no  glint  of 
gold  in  it.  You  knew  it  would  become  grey  in 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        205 

middle  age  with  no  definite  period  of  transition.  She 
never  buttoned  her  heavy  welted  gloves  but  wore 
them  back  over  her  hand,  like  a  cuff,  very  English. 
You  felt  there  must  be  a  riding  crop  concealed 
about  her  somewhere.  Perhaps  up  her  spine. 

As  has  been  said,  there  was  always  a  little  flurry 
when  she  came  into  the  big  store  that  had  made  mil 
lions  for  her  father.  It  would  be  nonsense  to  sup 
pose  that  Jessie  Heath  ever  deliberately  set  out  to 
attract  a  man  who  was  an  employee  in  that  store. 
But  it  is  pleasant  and  soothing  to  be  admired,  and 
to  have  a  fine  pair  of  eyes  look  fine  things  into  one's 
own  (shell-rimmed)  ones.  And,  after  all,  the  Jessie 
Heaths  of  this  world  are  walked  with,  and  golfed 
with,  and  ridden  with,  and  tennised  with,  and  told 
that  they're  wonderful  pals.  But  it's  the  Myras 
that  are  made  love  to.  So  now,  when  Florian  Sykes 
looked  at  her,  and  flushed  a  little,  and  said,  "I  sup 
pose  there  are  a  lot  of  lucky  ones  going  along  with 
you  on  this  trip,  Miss — Jessie,"  she  flushed,  too, 
and  flicked  her  boot  with  her  riding  crop — No,  no! 
I  forgot.  She  didn't  have  a  riding  crop.  Well, 
anyway  she  gave  the  effect  of  flicking  her  boot  with 
her  riding  crop,  and  said : 

"Would  you  like  to  go?" 

"Would  I  like  to  go !"  He  chocked  over  it. 

Then  he  sighed,  and  smiled  rather  wistfully. 
"That's  needlessly  cruel  of  you,  Miss  Jessie." 


206  GIGOLO 

"Maybe  it's  not  so  cruel  as  you  think,"  Jessie 
Heath  answered.  "Did  you  make  out  that  list?" 

"I  spent  practically  all  of  yesterday  on  it." 
Which  we  know  was  a  lie  because,  look,  wasn't  he 
with  Myra? 

They  went  over  the  list  together.  Fishing  tackle, 
tents,  pocket-flashes,  puttees,  ponchos,  chocolate, 
quirts,  slickers,  matches,  medicine-case,  sweaters, 
cooking  utensils,  blankets.  It  grew  longer,  and 
longer.  Their  heads  came  close  together  over  it. 
And  they  trailed  from  department  to  department, 
laughing  and  talking  together.  And  the  two  Maine 
ex-guides  and  the  clerk  who  boasted  he  knew  the 
Rockies  like  the  palm  of  his  hand,  said  to  one  another, 
"Get  on  to  Nature's  Rival  trying  to  make  a  hit  with 
Jessie." 

Meanwhile  Jessie  was  saying,  "Of  course  you 
know  the  Rockies,  being  a  Western  man,  and 
all." 

Florian  smiled  rather  deprecatingly.  "Queer 
part  of  it  is  I  don't  know  the  Rockies  so  well — " 
with  an  emphasis  on  the  word  Rockies  that  led  one 
to  think  his  more  noteworthy  feats  of  altitude  had 
been  accomplished  about  the  Alps,  the  Pyrenees,  the 
Andes,  and  the  lesser  Appalachians. 

"But  you've  climbed  them,  haven't  you?" 

He  burned  his  bridges  behind  him.  "Only  the 
— ah — eastern  slopes." 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        207 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  then.  We're  going  to  do 
the  west.  It'll  be  wonderful  having  you " 

"Me!" 

"Nothing.  Let's  go  on  with  the  list.  M-m-m — • 
where  were  we?  Oh,  yes.  Now  trout  flies.  Which 
do  you  honestly  think  best  for  mountain  trout? 
The  Silver  Doctor  or  the  Gray  Hackle  or  the  Yellow 
Professor?  U'm?" 

Inspiration  comes  to  us  at  such  times.  It  could 
have  been  nothing  less  that  prompted  him  to  say, 
"Well — doesn't  that  depend  a  lot  on  the  weather 
and  the  depth  of  the — ahem! — water?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  How  silly  of  me.  We'll  take  a 
lot  of  all  kinds,  and  then  we'll  be  safe." 

He  breathed  again  and  smiled.  He  had  a  win 
ning  smile,  Florian.  Jessie  Heath  smiled  in  return 
and  they  stood  there,  the  two  of  them,  lips  parted, 
eyes  holding  eyes. 

"My  God!"  said  the  man  who  boasted  he  knew 
the  Rockies  like  the  palm  of  his  own  hand,  "it  looks 
as  if  he'd  landed  her,  the  stiff." 

Certainly  it  looked  as  if  he  had.  For  next  morn 
ing  old  Heath,  red-faced,  genial-looking  (and  not  so 
genial  as  he  looked)  approached  the  head  of  the  fifth 
floor  and  said,  "How  long  you  been  with  us,  Sykes?" 

"Well,  I  came  here  as  errand  boy  at  thirteen. 
That's  ten — twelve — fifteen — just  about  sixteen 
years  next  June.  Yes,  sir." 


208  GIGOLO 

"How'd  Jessie — how'd  my  daughter  get  the  idea 
you  were  from  the  West,  and  a  regular  mountain 
goat,  and  a  peak-climber  and  all  that?" 

He  did  look  a  little  uncomfortable  then,  but  it 
was  too  late  for  withdrawal.  "I  am  from  the  West, 
you  know." 

"Have  you  had  any  long  vacations  since  you've 
been  with  us?" 

"No,  sir.  You  see,  in  the  summer,  of  course — 
our  busy  season.  I  never  can  get  away  then.  So 
I've  taken  my  two  weeks  in  the  fall." 

Old  Heath's  eyes  narrowed  musingly.  "Well,  you 
couldn't  have  done  all  this  mountain  climbing  before 

you  were  thirteen.  And  Jessie  says "  He 

paused,  rather  blankly.  "You  say  you  do  know  the 
Rockies,  though,  eh?" 

Florian  drew  himself  up  a  little.  "As  well  as  I 
know  any  mountain." 

"Oh,  well,  then,  that's  all  right.  Seems  Jessie 
thinks  you'd  be  a  fine  fellow  to  have  along  on  this 
trip.  I  can't  go  myself.  I  hate  this  mountain 
climbing,  anyway.  Too  darned  hard  work.  But 
it's  all  right  for  young  folks.  Well,  now,  what  do 
you  say?  Want  to  go?  You've  earned  a  vacation, 
after  sixteen  years.  There's  about  eight  in  Jessie's 
crowd.  Not  counting  guides.  What  do  you  say? 
Like  to  go?" 

For    a    dazed    moment    Florian    stared    at    him. 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        209 

"Why,  yessir.  Yes,  sir,  I'd — I'd  like  to  go — very 
much."  And  he  coughed  to  hide  his  joy  and 
terror. 

And  two  weeks  later  he  went. 

The  thing  swept  the  store  like  a  flame.  In  an 
hour  everyone  knew  it  from  the  shipping-room  to 
the  roof-restaurant.  Myra  saw  him  the  day  he  left. 
She  was  game,  that  girl. 

"I  hope  you're  going  to  have  a  beautiful  time, 
Mr.  Sykes." 

"Thanks,  Myra."  He  could  afford  to  be  lenient 
with  her,  poor  little  girl. 

She  ventured  a  final  wretched  word  or  two.  "It's 
— it's  wonderful  of  Mr.  Heath  and — Miss  Heath — 
isn't  it  ?"  She  was  rubbing  salt  into  her  own  wound 
and  taking  a  fierce  sort  of  joy  in  it. 

"Wonderful !  Say,  they're  a  couple  of  God's  green 
footstools,  that's  what  they  are!"  He  was  a  little 
mixed,  but  very  much  in  earnest.  "A  couple  of 
God's  green  footstools."  And  he  went. 

He  went,  and  Myra  watched  him  go,  and  except 
for  a  little  swelling  gulp  in  her  white  throat  you'd 
never  have  known  she'd  been  hit.  He  was  going 
with  Jessie  Heath.  Now,  Myra  had  no  illusions 
about  those  things.  Old  man  Heath's  wife,  now 
dead,  had  been  a  girl  with  no  money  and  no  looks, 
and  yet  he  had  married  her.  If  Jessie  Heath  hap 
pened  to  take  a  fancy  to  Florian,  why 


210  GIGOLO 

Myra's  little  world  stood  still,  and  in  it  were  small 
voices,  far  away,  asking  for  G^-B ;  and  have  you 
it  in  brown,  and  other  unimportant  things  like  that. 

Ten  minutes  after  the  train  had  started  Florian 
Sykes  knew  he  shouldn't  have  come.  He  had  sus 
pected  it  before.  He  kept  saying  to  himself,  over 
and  over:  "You've  always  wanted  a  mountain  trip, 
and  now  you're  going  to  have  it.  You're  a  lucky 
guy,  that's  what  you  are.  A  lucky  guy."  But  in 
his  heart  he  knew  he  was  lying. 

In  the  first  place,  they  were  all  so  glib  with  their 
altitudes,  and  their  packs,  and  their  trails,  and  their 
horses  and  their  camps.  It  was  a  rather  mixed 
and  raggle-taggle  group  that  Miss  Jessie  Heath 
had  gathered  about  her  for  this  expedition  to  the 
West.  They  ranged  all  the  way  from  a  little  fluffy 
witless  golden-haired  girl  they  all  called  Mud,  for 
some  obscure  reason,  and  who  had  been  Miss  Heath's 
room-mate  at  college,  surprisingly  enough,  to  a 
lady  of  stern  and  rock-bound  countenance  who 
looked  like  a  stage  chaperon  made  up  for  the  part. 
She  was  Miss  Heath's  companion  in  lieu  of  Mrs. 
Heath,  deceased.  In  between  there  were  a  couple 
of  men  of  Florian's  age;  two  youngsters  of  twenty- 
one  or  two  who  talked  of  Harvard  and  asked  Florian 
what  his  university  had  been;  an  old  girl  whose 
name  Florian  never  did  learn;  and  two  others  of 
Jessie  Heath's  age  and  general  style.  Florian 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        211 

found  himself  as  bewildered  by  their  talk  and  views 
as  though  they  had  been  jabbering  a  foreign  lan 
guage.  Every  now  and  then,  though,  one  of  them 
would  turn  to  him  for  a  bit  of  technical  advice.  If 
it  happened  to  concern  equipment  Florian  could 
answer  it  readily  enough.  Ten  years  on  the  fifth 
floor  had  taught  him  many  things.  But  if  the  knowl 
edge  sought  happened  to  be  of  things  geograph 
ical  or  of  nature,  he  floundered,  struggled,  sank. 
And  it  took  them  just  about  half  a  day  to  learn  this. 
The  trip  out  takes  four,  from  New  York. 

At  first  they  asked  him  things  to  see  him  suffer. 
But  they  tired  of  that,  after  a  bit.  It  was  too  easy. 
Queerly  enough,  Jessie  Heath,  mountain-wise  though 
she  was,  believed  in  him  almost  to  the  end.  But  that 
only  made  the  next  three  weeks  the  bitterer  for 
Florian  Sykes.  For  when  it  came  to  leaping  from 
peak  to  peak  Jessie  turned  out  to  be  the  young 
gazelle.  And  she  liked  to  have  Florian  with  her. 
On  the  trail  she  was  a  mosquito  afoot,  a  jockey 
ahorseback.  A  thousand  times,  in  those  three  weeks 
of  torture,  he  would  fix  his  eye  on  a  tree  ten  feet 
away,  up  the  steep  trail.  And  to  himself  he  would 
say,  "I'll  struggle,  somehow,  as  far  as  that  tree, 
and  then  die  under  it."  And  he  would  stagger  an 
other  ten  feet,  his  heart  pounding  in  the  unaccus 
tomed  altitude,  his  lungs  bursting,  his  lips  parted, 
his  breath  coming  sobbingly,  his  eyes  starting  from 


212  GIGOLO 

his  head.  Leaping  lightly  ahead  of  him,  around 
the  bend,  was  Jessie,  always.  She  had  a  way  of 
calling  to  the  laggard — hallooing,  I  believe  it's  sup 
posed  to  be.  And  she  expected  an  answer.  An 
answer !  When  your  lungs  were  bursting  through 
your  chest  and  your  heart  was  crowding  your  ton 
sils.  When  he  reached  her  it  was  always  to  find 
her  perched  on  a  seemingly  inaccessible  rock,  de 
manding  that  he  join  her  to  admire  the  view. 
Before  three  days  had  gone  by  the  sound  of  that 
halloo  with  its  breeziness  and  breath-control  and 
power,  made  him  sick  all  over.  Sometimes  she  sang, 
going  up  the  trail.  He  could  not  have  croaked  a 
note  if  failure  to  do  it  had  meant  instant  death. 
The  Harvard  hellions  (it  is  his  own  term)  were  in 
defatigable,  simian,  pitiless.  At  nine  thousand  feet 
they  aimed  at  ten.  At  ten  they  would  have  nothing 
less  than  twelve.  At  twelve  thousand  they  were  all 
for  making  another  drive  for  it  and  having  lunch  at 
an  altitude  of  thirteen  thousand  five  hundred.  As  he 
toiled  painfully  along  hundreds  of  feet  behind  them, 
Florian  used  to  take  a  hideous  pleasure  in  fancying 
how,  on  reaching  the  ever-distant  top,  the  Harvard 
hellions  would  be  missing.  And  after  searching  and 
hallooing  he  would  peer  over  the  edge  (13,500  feet,  at 
the  very  least,  surely)  and  there,  at  the  bottom, 
would  discern  their  mangled  forms,  distorted, 
crushed,  and  quite,  quite  dead. 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        213 

"Yoo-o-o — hoo-oo-oo-oo !"  Jessie,  up  the  trail. 
His  rosy  dream  would  vanish. 

He  learned  why  seasoned  mountain  climbers  make 
nothing  of  the  ascent.  He  learned,  in  bitterness  and 
unshed  tears,  that  it  is  the  descent  that  breaks  the 
heart  and  shatters  the  already  broken  frame.  That 
down-climb  with  your  toes  crashing  through  your 
boots  at  every  step ;  with  your  knee-brakes  refusing 
to  work,  your  thighs  creaking,  your  joints  spavined. 
The  views  were  wonderful.  But,  oh,  the  price  he 
paid!  The  air  was  intoxicating.  But  what,  he 
asked  himself,  was  wine  to  a  dead  man!  Miserable 
little  cockney  that  he  was  he  told  himself  a  hundred 
times  a  day  that  if  he  ever  survived  this  he'd  never 
look  at  another  view  again,  unless  from  the  Wool- 
worth  Tower,  on  a  calm  day.  He  thought  of  New 
York  as  a  traveller,  dying  of  thirst  in  the  desert, 
thinks  of  the  lush  green  oasis.  New  York  in  July ! 
Dear  New  York  in  July,  its  furs  in  storage,  its 
collar  unstarched,  its  coat  unbuttoned;  even  its 
doormen  and  chauffeurs  almost  human.  Would  he 
ever  see  it  again?  And  then,  as  if  in  answer  to  his 
question,  there  befell  an  incident  so  harrowing,  so 
nerve-shattering,  as  almost  to  make  a  negative  an 
swer  seem  inevitable. 

Florian  got  lost. 

It  was  the  third  week  of  the  trip.  Florian  had 
answered  Jessie's  eleven  thousandth  question  about 


214  GIGOLO 


things  of  which  he  was  quite,  quite  ignorant.  His 
brain  felt  queer  and  tight,  as  though  something 
were  about  to  snap. 

They  were  to  climb  the  Peak  next  day.  All  that 
day  they  had  been  approaching  it.  Florian  looked 
at  it.  And  he  hated  it.  It  was  like  a  colossal  for 
bidding  finger  pointing  upward,  upward,  taunting 
him,  menacing  him.  He  wished  that  some  huge 
cataclysm  of  nature  would  occur,  swallowing  up  this 
hideous  mass  of  pitiless  rock. 

Jessie  Heath's  none  too  classic  nose  had  peeled 
long  ere  this  and  her  neck  was  like  a  choice  cut  of 
underdone  beefsteak.  Florian  told  himself  that  there 
was  something  almost  indecent  about  a  girl  who 
cared  so  little  about  her  skin,  and  hair,  and  eyes, 
and  hands.  He  actually  hated  her  sturdy  legs  in 
their  boots  or  puttees — those  tireless,  pitiless  legs, 
always  twinkling  ahead  of  him,  up  the  trail. 

On  the  fateful  day  he  was  tired.  He  had  often 
been  tired  to  the  point  of  desperation  during  the 
past  three  weeks.  But  this  was  different.  Every 
step  was  torture.  Every  breath  was  pain.  Jessie 
was  a  few  hundred  feet  up  the  trail,  as  always,  and 
hallooing  to  him  every  dozen  paces.  The  Harvard 
hellions  were  doing  the  chamois  ahead  of  her.  The 
rest  of  the  party  were  toiling  along  behind.  One 
guide  was  just  ahead.  Another,  leading  two  horses, 
bringing  up  the  rear.  Suddenly,  desperately,  Flor- 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        215 

ian  knew  he  must  rest.  He  would  fling  himself  on 
a  bed  of  moss  by  the  side  of  the  trail,  in  the  shade, 
near  a  stunted,  wind-tortured  timber-line  pine,  and 
let  the  whole  procession  pass  him,  and  then  catch  up 
with  them  before  they  disappeared. 

He  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  narrow  trail,  almost 
indiscernible  at  this  height,  flung  himself  down  with 
a  little  groan  of  relief,  and  shut  his  sun-seared  eyes. 
The  voices  of  the  others  came  to  him.  There  was 
little  conversation.  He  heard  Jessie's  accursed 
halloo.  Then  the  soft  thud  of  the  pack-horses' 
hoofs,  the  creak  of  the  saddles.  He  must  get  up 
and  follow  now.  In  a  minute.  In  a  minute.  In 

He  must  have  slept  there  for  two  hours.  When 
he  awoke  the  light  had  changed  and  the  air  was  chill. 
He  sat  up,  bewildered.  He  rose.  He  looked  about, 
called,  hallooed,  shouted,  did  all  the  futile  frenzied 
things  that  a  city  man  does  who  is  lost  in  the 
mountains,  and,  knowing  he  is  lost,  is  panic-stricken. 
The  trail,  of  course!  He  looked  for  it,  and  there 
was  no  trail,  to  his  town-wise  eyes.  He  ran  hither 
and  thither,  and  back  to  hither  again.  He  went  for 
ward,  seemingly,  and  found  himself  back  whence  he 
started.  He  looked  for  cairns,  for  tree-blazes,  for 
any  one  of  the  signs  of  which  he  had  learned  in  the 
last  three  weeks.  He  found  none.  He  called  again, 
shrilly.  A  terror  seized  him.  Terror  of  those  grim, 


216  GIGOLO 

menacing,  towering  mountain  masses.  He  ram 
round  and  round  and  round;  darted  backward  and 
forward  ;  called ;  stumbled ;  fell,  and  subsided,  beaten. 

He  had  a  tiny  box  of  matches  with  him,  but  little 
else.  He  had  found  the  trail  difficult  enough  with 
out  being  pack-burdened.  Food?  He  bethought 
himself  of  a  little  blue  tin  box  in  his  coat  pocket. 
He  took  it  out  and  looked  at  it.  Its  very  name 
struck  terror  to  his  heart. 

U.  S.  Emergency  Ration.  It  was  printed  on  the 
box.  Just  below  that  he  made  out : 

Powdered  sugar 

Chocolate 

Cocoa  butter 

Malted  milk 

Egg  Albumin 

Casein. 

Not  to  be  opened  except  on  command  of  officer. 

My  God!  He  had  come  to  this!  He  looked  at 
it,  wide-eyed.  He  was  very  hungry.  The  ration, 
in  its  blue  tin,  like  a  box  of  shaving  talcum,  had  been 
handed  to  each  of  the  party  in  a  chorus  of  shouting 
and  laughter.  And  now  it  was  to  save  his  life 
He  managed  to  pry  open  the  box,  and  ate  some  o: 
its  contents,  slowly.  It  was  not  agreeable. 

Dusk  was  coming  on.  There  were  mountain  lions 
he  knew  that.  Those  rocks  and  crevices  were  peo 
pled  with  all  sorts  of  stealthy,  snarling,  slinking 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        217 

four-footed  creatures.  He  would  build  a  fire.  They 
were  afraid  of  the  flames,  he  had  read  somewhere, 
and  would  not  come  near.  Perhaps  the  others  would 
see  the  light,  and  come  back  to  find  him.  Curse 
them !  Why  hadn't  they  come  before  now ! 

It  was  dusk  by  the  time  he  had  his  fire  built.  He 
had  crouched  over  it  for  a  half-hour,  blowing  it, 
coaxing  it,  wheedling  it.  There  were  few  twigs  or 
sticks  at  this  height.  He  was  very  cold.  His  heavy 
sweater  was  in  the  pack  on  the  horse's  back.  Finally 
he  was  rewarded  with  a  feeble  flicker,  a  tiny  tongue 
of  flame.  He  rose  from  his  knees  and  passed  his 
j  hand  over  his  forehead  with  a  gesture  of  utter  weari 
ness  and  despair.  And  then  he  stared,  transfixed. 
For  on  the  plateau  above  him  rose  a  great  shaft  of 
fire.  The  kind  of  fire  that  only  Pete,  the  most  ex 
pert  among  guides,  could  build.  And  as  he  stared 
there  burst  out  at  him  from  behind  trees,  rocks, 
crevices,  a  whole  horde  of  imps  shrieking  with  fiendish 
laughter. 

"Ho,  ho,"  laughed  Jessie. 

And  "Ha,  ha !"  howled  the  Harvard  hellions. 

"Thought  you  were  lost,  didn'tcha?" 

"Gosh,  you  looked  funny !" 

"Your  face! " 

Florian  stared  at  them.  He  did  not  smile.  He 
went  quietly  over  to  his  tiny  camp-fire  and  stamped 
it  out,  neatly,  as  he  had  been  taught  to  do.  He 


218  GIGOLO 

took  his  can  of  emergency  ration  (not  to  be  opened 
except  on  command  of  officer)  and  hurled  it  far,  far 
down  the  mountainside.  Jessie  Heath  laughed,  con 
temptuously.  And  Florian,  looking  at  her,  didn't 
care.  Didn't  care.  Didn't  care. 

The  nightmare  was  over  in  August.  Over,  that 
is,  for  Florian.  The  rest  were  to  do  another  four 
weeks  of  it,  farther  into  the  interior.  Florian  sick 
ened  at  the  thought  of  it.  When  he  bade  them  fare 
well  he  was  so  glad  to  be  free  of  them  that  he  almost 
loved  them.  When  he  found  himself  actually  on  the 
little  jerkwater  train  that  was  to  connect  him  with 
the  main  line  he  patted  the  dusty  red  plush  seat, 
gratefully,  as  one  would  stroke  a  faithful  beast. 
When  he  came  into  the  Grand  Central  station  he 
would  have  stooped  and  kissed  the  steps  of  the 
marble  staircase  if  his  porter  had  not  been  on  the 
point  of  vanishing  with  his  bags.  That  night  on 
reaching  home  he  stayed  in  the  bathtub  for  an  hour, 
just  lying  there  in  the  warm,  soothing  liquid,  only 
moving  to  dapple  his  fingers  now  and  then  as  a  lazy 
fish  moves  a  languid  fin.  God's  country !  This 
was  it. 

"My,  it's  nice  to  have  you  back  again,  Mr. 
Sykes,"  said  Mrs.  Pet. 

"Is  your  big  two-room  suite  on  the  next  floor 
vacant?"  said  Florian,  cryptically. 

Mrs.    Pet    stared    a    little,    wonderingly.     "Yes, 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        219 

that's  vacant  since  the  Ostranders  left,  in  July. 
Why  do  you  ask,  Mr.  Sykes  ?" 

"Nothing,"  Florian  answered,  airily.  "Not  a 
thing.  Just  asked." 

His  train  had  come  in  at  nine.  It  was  eleven  now, 
but  he  was  restless,  and  a  little  hungry,  and  very 
much  exhilarated.  "You  certainly  look  grand," 
Mrs.  Pet  had  exclaimed,  admiringly.  "And  my, 
how  you're  sunburned !" 

He  left  the  Lexington  Avenue  house,  now,  and 
strolled  over  to  the  near-by  white-tiled  restaurant. 
There,  in  the  window,  was  the  white-capped  one, 
flapping  pancakes.  Florian  could  have  kissed  him. 
He  sat  down.  A  waitress  approached  him. 

"I  don't  know,"  mused  Florian.  "I'm  sort  of 
hungry,  but  I  don't  just " 

"The  pork  and  beans  are  elegant  to-night,"  sug 
gested  the  girl. 

And  "Pork  and  beans !     NO !"  thundered  Florian. 

The  girl  drew  herself  up  icily.  "I  ain't  deef. 
You  don't  need  to  yell." 

Florian  looked  up  at  her  contritely,  and  smiled 
his  winning  smile.  "I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  mean — I 
— I  never  want  to  see  beans  again  as  long  as  I 
live!" 

He  was  down  at  the  store  early,  early  next  morn 
ing.  His  practised  eye  swept  the  department  for 
possible  slackness,  for  changes,  for  needed  adjust- 


220  GIGOLO 

merits.  The  two  Maine  ex-guides  and  the  chap  who 
knew  the  Rockies  like  the  palm  of  his  hand  wel 
comed  him  with  Judas-like  slaps  on  the  shoulder. 
"Like  it  ?"  they  asked  him.  And,  "God's  country — 
the  West,"  he  answered,  mechanically.  After  that 
he  ignored  them.  At  nine  he  ran  down  the  two 
flights  of  stairs  to  the  third  floor.  He  did  not  wait 
for  the  elevator. 

For  a  moment  he  could  not  find  her  and  his  heart 
sank.  She  might  be  away  on  a  vacation.  Then 
he  spied  her  in  a  corner  half-hidden  by  a  rack  of 
covert  coats.  She  was  hanging  them  up.  The  floor 
was  empty  of  customers  thus  early.  He  strode  over 
to  her.  She  turned.  Into  her  eyes  there  leaped  a 
look  which  she  quickly  veiled  as  had  been  taught  her 
by  a  thousand  thousand  female  ancestors. 

"I  got  your  postals,"  she  said. 

Florian  said  nothing. 

"My,  you're  brown!" 

Florian  said  nothing. 

"Did  you — have  a  good  time?" 

Florian  said  nothing. 

"What — what "  Her  hand  went  to  her 

throat,  where  his  eyes  were  fastened. 

Then  Florian  spoke.  "How  white  your  throat 
is !"  he  said.  "How  white  your  throat  is !" 

Myra  stepped  out,  then,  from  among  the  covert 
coats  on  the  rack.  Her  head  was  lifted  hi^h  on  the 


AIN'T  NATURE  WONDERFUL!        221 

creamy  column  that  supported  it.  She  had  her 
pride,  had  Myra. 

"It's  no  whiter  than  it  was  a  month  ago,  that  I 
can  see." 

"I  know  it."  His  tone  was  humble,  with  a  little 
pleading  note  in  it.  "I  know  a  lot  of  things  that  I 
didn't  know  a  month  ago,  Myra." 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES 

HANNAH  WINTER  was  sixty  all  of  a  sud 
den,  as  women  of  sixty  are.  Just  yester 
day — or  the  day  before,  at  most — she  had 
been  a  bride  of  twenty  in  a  wine-coloured  silk  wed 
ding  gown,  very  stiff  and  rich.  And  now  here  she 
was,  all  of  a  sudden,  sixty. 

The  actual  anniversary  that  marked  her  three 
score  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  She  had 
passed  that  day  painlessly  enough — happily,  in  fact. 
But  now,  here  she  was,  all  of  a  sudden,  consciously, 
bewilderingly,  sixty.  This  is  the  way  it  happened! 

She  was  rushing  along  Peacock  Alley  to  meet  her 
daughter  Marcia.  Any  one  who  knows  Chicago 
knows  that  smoke-blackened  pile,  the  Congress 
Hotel;  and  any  one  who  knows  the  Congress  Hotel 
has  walked  down  that  glittering  white  marble  crypt 
called  Peacock  Alley.  It  is  neither  so  glittering 
nor  so  white,  nor,  for  that  matter,  so  prone  to  preen 
itself  as  it  was  in  the  hotel's  palmy  '90s.  But  it 
still  serves  as  a  convenient  short  cut  on  a  day  when 
Chicago's  lake  wind  makes  Michigan  Boulevard  a 

222 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  223 

hazard,  and  thus  Hannah  Winter  was  using  it. 
She  was  to  have  met  Marcia  at  the  Michigan  Boule 
vard  entrance  at  two,  sharp.  And  here  it  was  2.07. 
When  Marcia  said  two,  there  she  was  at  two,  waiting, 
lips  slightly  compressed.  When  you  came  clatter 
ing  up,  breathless,  at  2.07,  she  said  nothing  in  re 
proach.  But  within  the  following  half  hour  bits 
of  her  conversation,  if  pieced  together,  would  have 
summed  up  something  like  this : 

"I  had  to  get  the  children  off  in  time  and  give 
them  their  lunch  first  because  it's  wash  day  and 
Lutie's  busy  with  the  woman  and  won't  do  a  single 
extra  thing ;  and  all  my  marketing  for  to-day  and  to 
morrow  because  to-morrow's  Memorial  Day  and  they 
close  at  noon ;  and  stop  at  the  real  estate  agent's  on 
Fifty-third  to  see  them  about  the  wall  paper  before 
I  came  down.  I  didn't  even  have  time  to  swallow  a 
cup  of  tea.  And  yet  I  was  here  at  two.  You 
haven't  a  thing  to  do.  Not  a  blessed  thing,  living 
at  a  hotel.  It  does  seem  to  me.  .  .  ." 

So  then  here  it  was  2.07,  and  Hannah  Winter, 
rather  panicky,  was  rushing  along  Peacock  Alley, 
dodging  loungers,  and  bell-boys,  and  travelling 
salesmen  and  visiting  provincials  and  the  inevitable 
red-faced  delegates  with  satin  badges.  In  her  hurry 
and  nervous  apprehension  she  looked,  as  she  scut 
tled  down  the  narrow  passage,  very  much  like  the 
Rabbit  who  was  late  for  the  Duchess's  dinner.  Her 


224  GIGOLO 

rubber-heeled  oxfords  were  pounding  down  hard  on 
the  white  marble  pavement.  Suddenly  she  saw 
coming  swiftly  toward  her  a  woman  who  seemed 
strangely  familiar — a  well-dressed  woman,  harassed 
looking,  a  tense  frown  between  her  eyes,  and  her 
eyes  staring  so  that  they  protruded  a  little,  as  one 
who  runs  ahead  of  herself  in  her  haste.  Hannah 
had  just  time  to  note,  in  a  flash,  that  the  woman's 
smart  hat  was  slightly  askew  and  that,  though  she 
walked  very  fast,  her  trim  ankles  showed  the 
inflexibility  of  age,  when  she  saw  that  the  wo 
man  was  not  going  to  get  out  of  her  way. 
Hannah  Winter  swerved  quickly  to  avoid  a  collision. 
So  did  the  other  woman.  Next  instant  Hannah 
Winter  brought  up  with  a  crash  against  her  own 
image  in  that  long  and  tricky  mirror  which  forms 
a  broad  full-length  panel  set  in  the  marble  wall  at 
the  north  end  of  Peacock  Alley.  Passersby  and  the 
loungers  on  near-by  red  plush  seats  came  running, 
but  she  was  unhurt  except  for  a  forehead  bump  that 
remained  black-and-blue  for  two  weeks  or  more. 
The  bump  did  not  bother  her,  nor  did  the  slightly 
amused  concern  of  those  who  had  come  to  her  assist 
ance.  She  stood  there,  her  hat  still  askew,  staring 
at  this  woman — this  woman  with  her  stiff  ankles,  her 
slightly  protruding  eyes,  her  nervous  frown,  her  hat 
a  little  sideways — this  stranger — this  murderess 
who  had  just  slain,  ruthlessly  and  forever,  a  sallow, 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  225 

lively,  high-spirited  girl  of  twenty  in  a  wine-coloured 
silk  wedding  gown. 

Don't  think  that  Hannah  Winter,  at  sixty,  had 
tried  to  ape  sixteen.  She  was  not  one  of  those  grisly 
sexagenarians  who  think  that,  by  wearing  pink,  they 
can  combat  the  ochre  of  age.  Not  at  all.  In  dress, 
conduct,  mode  of  living  she  was  as  an  intelligent 
and  modern  woman  of  sixty  should  be.  The  youth 
of  her  was  in  that  intangible  thing  called,  sentiment 
ally,  the  spirit.  It  had  survived  forty  years  of 
buffeting,  and  disappointment,  and  sacrifice  and 
hard  work.  Inside  this  woman  who  wore  well- 
tailored  black  and  small  close  hats  and  clean  white 
wash  gloves  (even  in  Chicago)  was  the  girl,  Hannah 
Winter,  still  curious  about  this  adventure  known 
as  living;  still  capable  of  bearing  its  disappoint 
ments  or  enjoying  its  surprises.  Still  capable,  even, 
of  being  surprised.  And  all  this  is  often  the  case, 
all  unsuspected  by  the  Marcias  until  the  Marcias 
are,  themselves,  suddenly  sixty.  W^hen  it  is  too 
late  to  say  to  the  Hannah  Winters,  "Now  I 
understand." 

We  know  that  Hannah  Winter  had  been  married 
in  wine-coloured  silk,  very  stiff  and  grand.  So  stiff 
and  rich  that  the  dress  would  have  stood  alone  if 
Hannah  had  ever  thought  of  subjecting  her  wedding 
gown  to  such  indignity.  It  was  the  sort  of  silk  of 
which  it  is  said  that  they  don't  make  such  silk  now. 


226  GIGOLO 

It  was  cut  square  at  the  neck  and  trimmed  with 
passementerie  and  fringe  brought  crosswise  from 
breast  to  skirt  hem.  It's  in  the  old  photograph  and, 
curiously  enough,  while  Marcia  thinks  it's  comic, 
Joan,  her  nine-year-old  daughter,  agrees  with  her 
grandmother  in  thinking  it  very  lovely.  And  so, 
in  its  quaintness  and  stiffness  and  bravery,  it  is. 
Only  you've  got  to  have  imagination. 

While  wine-coloured  silk  wouldn't  have  done  for 
a  church  wedding  it  was  quite  all  right  at  home ;  and 
Hannah  Winter's  had  been  a  home  wedding  (the 
Winters  lived  in  one  of  the  old  three-story  red-bricks 
that  may  still  be  seen,  in  crumbling  desuetude,  over 
on  Rush  Street)  so  that  wine-coloured  silk  for  a 
twenty-year-old  bride  was  quite  in  the  mode. 

It  is  misleading,  perhaps,  to  go  on  calling  her 
Hannah  Winter,  for  she  married  Hermie  Slocum  and 
became,  according  to  law,  Mrs.  Hermie  Slocum,  but 
remained,  somehow,  Hannah  Winter  in  spite  of  law 
and  clergy,  though  with  no  such  intent  on  her  part. 
She  had  never  even  heard  of  Lucy  Stone.  It  wasn't 
merely  that  her  Chicago  girlhood  friends  still  spoke 
of  her  as  Hannah  Winter.  Hannah  Winter  suited 
her — belonged  to  her  and  was  characteristic.  Mrs. 
Hermie  Slocum  sort  of  melted  and  ran  down  off  her. 
Hermie  was  the  sort  of  man  who,  christened  Herman, 
is  called  Hermie.  That  all  those  who  had  known 
her  before  her  marriage  still  spoke  of  her  as  Hannah 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  227 

Winter  forty  years  later  was  merely  another  tri 
umph  of  the  strong  over  the  weak. 

At  twenty  Hannah  Winter  had  been  a  rather 
sallow,  lively,  fun-loving  girl,  not  pretty,  but  ani 
mated  ;  and  forceful,  even  then.  The  Winters  were 
middle-class,  respected,  moderately  well-to-do  Chi 
cago  citizens — or  had  been  moderately  well-to-do 
before  the  fire  of  '71.  Horace  Winter  had  been 
caught  in  the  financial  funk  that  followed  this 
disaster  and  the  Rush  Street  household,  almost  ten 
years  later,  was  rather  put  to  it  to  supply  the  wine- 
coloured  silk  and  the  supplementary  gowns,  linens, 
and  bedding.  In  those  days  you  married  at  twenty 
if  a  decent  chance  to  marry  at  twenty  presented 
itself.  And  Hermie  Slocum  seemed  a  decent  chance, 
undoubtedly.  A  middle-class,  respected,  moderately 
well-to-do  person  himself,  Hermie,  with  ten  thousand 
dollars  saved  at  thirty-five  and  just  about  to  invest 
it  in  business  in  the  thriving  city  of  Indianapolis. 
A  solid  young  man,  Horace  Winter  said.  Not  much 
given  to  talk.  That  indicated  depth  and  thinking. 
Thrifty  and  far-sighted,  as  witness  the  good  ten 
thousand  in  cash.  Kind.  Old  enough,  with  his  ad 
ditional  fifteen  years,  to  balance  the  lively  Hannah 
who  was  considered  rather  flighty  and  too  prone 
to  find  fun  in  things  that  others  considered  serious. 
A  good  thing  she  never  quite  lost  that  fault. 
Hannah  resolutely  and  dutifully  put  out  of  her  head 


228  GIGOLO 

(or  nearly)  all  vagrant  thoughts  of  Clint  Darrow 
with  the  crisp  black  hair  and  the  surprising  blue  eyes 
thereto,  and  the  hat  worn  rakishly  a  little  on  one 
side,  and  the  slender  cane  and  the  pointed  shoes.  A 
whipper-snapper,  according  to  Horace  Winter. 
Not  a  solid  business  man  like  Hermie  Slocum. 
Hannah  did  not  look  upon  herself  as  a  human 
sacrifice.  She  was  genuinely  fond  of  Hermie.  She 
was  fond  of  her  father,  too ;  the  rather  harassed  and 
hen-pecked  Horace  Winter;  and  of  her  mother,  the 
voluble  and  quick-tongued  and  generous  Bertha 
Winter,  who  was  so  often  to  be  seen  going  down 
the  street,  shawl  and  bonnet-strings  flying,  when  she 
should  have  been  at  home  minding  her  household. 
Much  of  the  minding  had  fallen  to  Hannah. 

And  so  they  were  married,  and  went  to  the  thriv 
ing  city  of  Indianapolis  to  live,  and  Hannah  Winter 
was  so  busy  with  her  new  household  goods,  and  the 
linens,  and  the  wine-coloured  silk  and  its  less  mag 
nificent  satellites,  that  it  was  almost  a  fortnight  be 
fore  she  realized  fully  that  this  solid  young  man, 
Hermie  Slocum,  was  not  only  solid  but  immovable; 
not  merely  thrifty,  but  stingy;  not  alone  taciturn 
but  quite  conversationless.  His  silences  had  not 
proceeded  from  the  unplumbed  depths  of  his  knowl 
edge.  He  merely  had  nothing  to  say.  She  learned, 
too,  that  the  ten  thousand  dollars,  soon  dispelled, 
had  been  made  for  him  by  an  energetic  and  shrewd 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  229 

business  partner  with  whom  he  had  quarrelled  and 
from  whom  he  had  separated  a  few  months  before. 

There  never  was  another  lump  sum  of  ten  thou 
sand  of  Hermie  Slocum's  earning. 

Well.  Forty  years  ago,  having  made  the  worst 
of  it  you  made  the  best  of  it.  No  going  home  to 
mother.  The  Word  "incompatibility"  had  not  come 
into  wide-spread  use.  Incompatibility  was  a  thing 
to  hide,  not  to  flaunt.  The  years  that  followed  were 
dramatic  or  commonplace,  depending  on  one's  sense 
of  values.  Certainly  those  years  were  like  the  mar 
ried  years  of  many  another  young  woman  of  that 
unplastic  day.  Hannah  Winter  had  her  job  cut 
out  for  her  and  she  finished  it  well,  and  alone.  No 
reproaches.  Little  complaint.  Criticism  she  made 
in  plenty,  being  the  daughter  of  a  voluble  mother; 
and  she  never  gave  up  hope  of  stiffening  the  spine 
of  the  invertebrate  Hermie. 

The  ten  thousand  went  in  driblets.  There  never 
was  anything  dashing  or  romantic  about  Hermie 
Slocum's  failures.  The  household  never  felt  actual 
want,  nor  anything  so  picturesque  as  poverty. 
Hannah  saw  to  that. 

You  should  have  read  her  letters  back  home  to 
Chicago — to  her  mother  and  father  back  home  on 
Rush  Street,  in  Chicago ;  and  to  her  girlhood  friends, 
Sarah  Clapp,  Vinie  Harden,  and  Julia  Pierce.  They 
were  letters  that,  for  stiff-lipped  pride  and  brazen 


230  GIGOLO 

boasting,  were  of  a  piece  with  those  written  by  Sen 
timental  Tommy's  mother  when  things  were  going 
worst  with  her. 

"My  wine-coloured  silk  is  almost  worn  out,"  she 
wrote.  "I'm  thinking  of  making  it  over  into  a  tea- 
gown  with  one  of  those  new  cream  pongee  panels 
down  the  front.  Hermie  says  he's  tired  of  seeing 
me  in  it,  evenings.  He  wants  me  to  get  a  blue  but 
I  tell  him  I'm  too  black  for  blue.  Aren't  men  stupid 
about  clothes !  Though  I  pretend  to  Hermie  that  I 
think  his  taste  is  excellent,  even  when  he  brings  me 
home  one  of  those  expensive  beaded  mantles  I 
detest." 

Bald,  bare-faced,  brave  lying. 

The  two  children  arrived  with  mathematical 
promptness — first  Horace,  named  after  his  grand 
father  Winter,  of  course ;  then  Martha,  named  after 
no  one  in  particular,  but  so  called  because  Hermie 
Slocum  insisted,  stubbornly,  that  Martha  was  a 
good  name  for  a  girl.  Martha  herself  fixed  all  that 
by  the  simple  process  of  signing  herself  Marcia  in 
her  twelfth  year  and  forever  after.  Marcia  was  a 
throw-back  to  her  grandmother  Winter — quick- 
tongued,  restless,  volatile.  The  boy  was  an  admir 
able  mixture  of  the  best  qualities  of  his  father  and 
mother;  slow-going,  like  Hermie  Slocum,  but  arriv 
ing  surely  at  his  goal,  like  his  mother.  With  some 
thing  of  her  driving  force  mixed  with  anything  his 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  231 

father  had  of  gentleness.  A  fine  boy,  and  uninter 
esting.  It  was  Hannah  Winter's  boast  that  Horace 
never  caused  her  a  moment's  sorrow  or  uneasiness  in 
all  his  life;  and  so  Marcia,  the  troublous,  was 
naturally  her  pride  and  idol. 

As  Hermie's  business  slid  gently  downhill  Hannah 
tried  with  all  her  strength  to  stop  it.  She  had  a 
shrewd  latent  business  sense  and  this  she  vainly 
tried  to  instil  in  her  husband.  The  children,  stir 
ring  in  their  sleep  in  the  bedroom  adjoining  that  of 
their  parents,  would  realize,  vaguely,  that  she  was 
urging  him  to  try  something  to  which  he  was  op 
posed.  They  would  grunt  and  whimper  a  little,  and 
perhaps  remonstrate  sleepily  at  being  thus  dis 
turbed,  and  then  drop  off  to  sleep  again  to  the  sound 
of  her  desperate  murmurs.  For  she  was  desperate. 
She  was  resolved  not  to  go  to  her  people  for  help. 
And  it  seemed  inevitable  if  Hermie  did  not  heed  her. 
She  saw  that  he  was  unsuited  for  business  of  the  mer 
cantile  sort;  urged  him  to  take  up  the  selling  of  in 
surance,  just  then  getting  such  a  strong  and  wide 
hold  on  the  country. 

In  the  end  he  did  take  it  up,  and  would  have 
made  a  failure  of  that,  too,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
Hannah.  It  was  Hannah  who  made  friends  for  him, 
sought  out  prospective  clients  for  him,  led  social 
conversation  into  business  channels  whenever  chance 
presented  itself.  She  had  the  boy  and  girl  to  think 


232  GIGOLO 

of  and  plan  for.  When  Hermie  objected  to  this  or 
that  luxury  for  them  as  being  stuff  and  nonsense 
Hannah  would  say,  not  without  a  touch  of  bitter 
ness,  "I  want  them  to  have  every  advantage  I  can 
give  them.  I  want  them  to  have  all  the  advantages 
I  never  had  when  I  was  young." 

"They'll  never  thank  you  for  it." 

"I  don't  want  them  to." 

Adam  and  Eve  doubtless  had  the  same  argument 
about  the  bringing  up  of  Cain  and  Abel.  And  Adam 
probably  said,  after  Cain's  shocking  crime,  "Well, 
what  did  I  tell  you!  Was  I  right  or  was  I  wrong? 
Who  spoiled  him  in  the  first  place!" 

They  had  been  married  seventeen  years  when 
Hermie  Slocum,  fifty- two,  died  of  pneumonia  follow 
ing  a  heavy  cold.  The  thirty-seven-year-old  widow 
was  horrified  (but  not  much  surprised)  to  find  that 
the  insurance  solicitor  had  allowed  two  of  his  own 
policies  to  lapse.  The  company  was  kind,  but 
businesslike.  The  insurance  amounted,  in  all,  to 
about  nine  thousand  dollars.  Trust  Hermie  for 
never  quite  equalling  that  ten  again. 

They  offered  her  the  agency  left  vacant  by  her 
husband,  after  her  first  two  intelligent  talks  with 
them. 

"No,"  she  said,  "not  here.  I'm  going  back  to 
Chicago  to  sell  insurance.  Everybody  knows  me 
there.  My  father  was  an  old  settler  in  Chicago. 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  233 

There'll  be  my  friends,  and  their  husbands,  and  their 
sons.  Besides,  the  children  will  have  advantages 
there.  I'm  going  back  to  Chicago." 

She  went.  Horace  and  Bertha  Winter  had  died 
five  years  before,  within  less  than  a  year  of  each 
other.  The  old  Rush  Street  house  had  been  sold. 
The  neighbourhood  was  falling  into  decay.  The 
widow  and  her  two  children  took  a  little  flat  on  the 
south  side.  Widowed,  one  might  with  equanimity 
admit  stress  of  circumstance.  It  was  only  when  one 
had  a  husband  that  it  was  disgraceful  to  show  him 
to  the  world  as  a  bad  provider. 

"I  suppose  we  lived  too  well,"  Hannah  said  when 
her  old  friends  expressed  concern  at  her  plight. 
"Hermie  was  too  generous.  But  I  don't  mind  work 
ing.  It  keeps  me  young." 

And  so,  truly,  it  did.  She  sold  not  only  insurance 
but  coal,  a  thing  which  rather  shocked  her  south  side 
friends.  She  took  orders  for  tons  of  this  and  tons 
of  that,  making  a  neat  commission  thereby.  She  had 
a  desk  in  the  office  of  a  big  insurance  company  on 
Dearborn,  near  Monroe,  and  there  you  saw  her 
every  morning  at  ten  in  her  neat  sailor  hat  and  her 
neat  tailored  suit.  Four  hours  of  work  lay  behind 
that  ten  o'clock  appearance.  The  children  were  off 
to  school  a  little  after  eight.  But  there  was  the 
ordering  to  do ;  cleaning ;  sewing ;  preserving,  mend 
ing.  A  woman  came  in  for  a  few  hours  every  day 


234  GIGOLO 

but  there  was  no  room  for  a  resident  helper.  At 
night  there  were  a  hundred  tasks.  She  helped  the 
boy  and  girl  with  their  home  lessons,  as  well,  being 
naturally  quick  at  mathematics.  The  boy  Horace 
had  early  expressed  the  wish  to  be  an  engineer  and 
Hannah  contemplated  sending  him  to  the  University 
of  Wisconsin  because  she  had  heard  that  there  the 
engineering  courses  were  particularly  fine.  Not  only 
that,  she  actually  sent  him. 

Marcia  showed  no  special  talent.  She  was  quick, 
clever,  pretty,  and  usually  more  deeply  engaged  in 
some  school-girl  love  affair  than  Hannah  Winter 
approved.  She  would  be  an  early  bride,  one  could 
see  that.  No  career  for  Marcia,  though  she  sketched 
rather  well,  sewed  cleverly,  played  the  piano  a  little, 
sang  just  a  bit,  could  trim  a  hat  or  turn  a  dress, 
danced  the  steps  of  the  day.  She  could  even  cook  a 
commendable  dinner.  Hannah  saw  to  that.  She  saw 
to  it,  as  well,  that  the  boy  and  the  girl  went  to  the 
theatre  occasionally ;  heard  a  concert  at  rare  inter 
vals.  There  was  little  money  for  luxuries.  Some 
times  Marcia  said,  thoughtlessly,  "Mother,  why  do 
you  wear  those  stiff  plain  things  all  the  time?'' 

Hannah,  who  had  her  own  notion  of  humour, 
would  reply,  "The  better  to  clothe  you,  my 
dear." 

Her  girlhood  friends  she  saw  seldom.  Two  of 
them  had  married.  One  was  a  spinster  of  forty. 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  235 

They  had  all  moved  to  the  south  side  during  the 
period  of  popularity  briefly  enjoyed  by  that  section 
in  the  late  '90s.  Hannah  had  no  time  for  their 
afternoon  affairs.  At  night  she  was  too  tired  or  too 
busy  for  outside  diversions.  When  they  met  her 
they  said,  "Hannah  Winter,  you  don't  grow  a  day 
older.  How  do  you  do  it  1" 

"Hard  work." 

"A  person  never  sees  you.  Why  don't  you  take  an 
afternoon  off  some  time?  Or  come  in  some  evening? 
Henry  was  saying  only  yesterday  that  he  enjoyed 
his  talk  with  you  so  much,  and  that  you  were  smarter 
than  any  man  insurance  agent.  He  said  you  sold 
him  I  don't  know  how  many  thousand  dollars'  worth 
before  he  knew  it.  Now  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  go 
without  a  new  fur  coat  this  winter." 

Hannah  smiled  agreeably.  "Well,  Julia,  it's 
better  for  you  to  do  without  a  new  fur  coat  this 
winter  than  for  me  to  do  without  any." 

The  Clint  Darrow  of  her  girlhood  dreams,  grown 
rather  paunchy  and  mottled  now,  and  with  the  curl 
ing  black  hair  but  a  sparse  grizzled  fringe,  had  be 
lied  Horace  Winter's  contemptuous  opinion.  He 
was  a  moneyed  man  now,  with  an  extravagant  wife, 
but  no  children.  Hannah  underwrote  him  for  a 
handsome  sum,  received  his  heavy  compliments  with 
a  deft  detachment,  heard  his  complaints  about  his 
extravagant  wife  with  a  sympathetic  expression,  but 


236  GIGOLO 

no  comment — and  that  night  spent  the  ten  minutes 
before  she  dropped  off  to  sleep  in  pondering  the 
impenetrable  mysteries  of  the  institution  called 
marriage.  She  had  married  the  solid  Hermie,  and  he 
had  turned  out  to  be  quicksand.  She  had  not  mar 
ried  the  whipper-snapper  Clint,  and  now  he  was  one 
of  the  rich  city's  rich  men.  Had  she  married  him 
against  her  parents'  wishes  would  Clint  Darrow  now 
be  complaining  of  her  extravagance,  perhaps,  to 
some  woman  he  had  known  in  his  youth?  She 
laughed  a  little,  to  herself,  there  in  the  dark. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  giggling  about, 
Mother?"  called  Marcia,  who  slept  in  the  bedroom 
near  by.  Hannah  occupied  the  davenport  couch  in 
the  sitting  room.  There  had  been  some  argument 
about  that.  But  Hannah  had  said  she  preferred 
it;  and  the  boy  and  girl  finally  ceased  to  object. 
Horace  in  the  back  bedroom,  Marcia  in  the  front 
bedroom,  Hannah  in  the  sitting  room.  She  made 
many  mistakes  like  that.  So,  then,  "What  in  the 
world  are  you  giggling  about,  Mother?" 

"Only  a  game,"  answered  Hannah,  "that  some 
people  were  playing  to-day." 

"A  new  game?" 

"Oh,  my,  no!"  said  Hannah,  and  laughed  again. 
"It's  old  as  the  world." 

Hannah  was  forty-seven  when  Marcia  married. 
Marcia  married  well.  Not  brilliantly,  of  course,  but 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  237 

well.  Edward  was  with  the  firm  of  Gaige  &  Hoe, 
Importers.  He  had  stock  in  the  company  and  an 
excellent  salary,  with  prospects.  With  Horace  away 
at  the  engineering  school  Hannah's  achievement  of 
Marcia's  trousseau  was  an  almost  superhuman  feat. 
But  it  was  a  trousseau  complete.  As  they  selected 
the  monogrammed  linens,  the  hand-made  lingerie,  the 
satin-covered  down  quilts,  the  smart  frocks,  Hannah 
thought,  quite  without  bitterness,  of  the  wine-col 
oured  silk.  Marcia  was  married  in  white.  She  was 
blonde,  with  a  fine  fair  skin,  in  her  father's  likeness, 
and  she  made  a  picture-book  bride.  She  and  Ed  took 
a  nice  little  six-room  apartment  on  Hyde  Park 
Boulevard,  near  the  Park  and  the  lake.  There  was 
some  talk  of  Hannah's  coming  to  live  with  them  but 
she  soon  put  that  right. 

"No,"  she  had  said,  at  once.  "None  of  that.  No 
flat  was  ever  built  that  was  big  enough  for  two 
families." 

"But  you're  not  a  family,  Mother.     You're  us." 

Hannah,  though,  was  wiser  than  that. 

She  went  up  to  Madison  for  Horace's  commence 
ment.  He  was  very  proud  of  his  youthful  looking, 
well-dressed,  intelligent  mother.  He  introduced  her, 
with  pride,  to  the  fellows.  But  there  was  more  than 
pride  in  his  tone  when  he  brought  up  Louise. 
Hannah  knew  then,  at  once.  Horace  had  said  that 
he  would  start  to  pay  back  his  mother  for  his 


238  GIGOLO 

university  training  with  the  money  earned  from  his 
very  first  job.  But  now  he  and  Hannah  had  a  talk. 
Hannah  hid  her  own  pangs — quite  natural  pangs  of 
jealousy  and  something  very  like  resentment. 

"There  aren't  many  Louises,"  said  Hannah. 
"And  waiting  doesn't  do,  somehow.  You're  an  early 
marrier,  Horace.  The  steady,  dependable  kind. 
I'd  be  a  pretty  poor  sort  of  mother,  wouldn't  I, 
if "  etc. 

Horace's  first  job  took  him  out  to  South  America. 
He  was  jubilant,  excited,  remorseful,  eager,  down 
cast,  all  at  once.  He  and  Louise  were  married  a 
month  before  the  time  set  for  leaving  and  she  went 
with  him.  It  was  a  job  for  a  young  and  hardy 
and  adventurous.  On  the  day  they  left,  Hannah 
felt,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  bereaved,  widowed, 
cheated. 

There  followed,  then,  ten  years  of  hard  work  and 
rigid  economy.  She  lived  in  good  boarding  houses, 
and  hated  them.  She  hated  them  so  much  that, 
toward  the  end,  she  failed  even  to  find  amusement  in 
the  inevitable  wall  pictures  of  plump,  partially 
draped  ladies  lounging  on  couches  and  being  tickled 
in  their  sleep  by  overfed  cupids  in  mid-air.  She 
saved  and  scrimped  with  an  eye  to  the  time  when 
she  would  no  longer  work.  She  made  some  shrewd 
and  well-advised  investments.  At  the  end  of  these 
ten  years  she  found  herself  possessed  of  a  consider- 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  239 

able  sum  whose  investment  brought  her  a  sufficient 
income,  with  careful  management, 
i  Life  had  tricked  Hannah  Winter,  but  it  had  not 
beaten  her.  And  there,  commonplace  or  dramatic, 
depending  on  one's  viewpoint,  you  have  the  first 
sixty  years  of  Hannah  Winter's  existence. 

This  is  the  curious  thing  about  them.  Though 
heavy,  these  years  had  flown.  The  working,  the 
planning,  the  hoping,  had  sped  them  by,  somehow. 
True,  things  that  never  used  to  tire  her  tired  her 
now,  and  she  acknowledged  it.  She  was  older,  of 
course.  But  she  never  thought  of  herself  as  old. 
Perhaps  she  did  not  allow  herself  to  think  thus.  She 
had  married,  brought  children  into  the  world,  made 
their  future  sure — or  as  sure  as  is  humanly  possible. 
And  yet  she  never  said,  "My  work  is  done.  My  life 
is  over."  About  the  future  she  was  still  as  eager  as 
a  girl.  She  was  a  grandmother.  Marcia  and  Ed 
had  two  children,  Joan,  nine,  and  Peter,  seven 
(strong  simple  names  were  the  mode  just  then). 

Perhaps  you  know  that  hotel  on  the  lake  front 
built  during  the  World's  Fair  days?  A  roomy, 
rambling,  smoke-blackened,  comfortable  old  struc 
ture,  ringed  with  verandas,  its  shabby  fa9ade  shab- 
tyier  by  contrast  with  the  beds  of  tulips  or  geraniums 
or  canna  that  jewel  its  lawn.  There  Hannah  Winter 
went  to  live.  It  was  within  five  minutes'  walk  of 
Marcia's  apartment.  Rather  expensive,  but  as 


240  GIGOLO 

homelike  as  a  hotel  could  be  and  housing  many  old- 
time  Chicago  friends. 

She  had  one  room,  rather  small,  with  a  bit  of  the 
lake  to  be  seen  from  one  window.  The  grim,  old- 
fashioned  hotel  furniture  she  lightened  and  supple 
mented  with  some  of  her  own  things.  There  was  a 
day  bed — a  narrow  and  spindling  affair  for  a 
woman  of  her  height  and  comfortable  plumpness.  In 
the  daytime  this  couch  was  decked  out  with  taffeta 
pillows  in  rose  and  blue,  with  silk  fruit  and  flowers 
on  them,  and  gold  braid.  There  were  two  silk-shaded 
lamps,  a  shelf  of  books,  the  photographs  of  the  chil 
dren  in  flat  silver  frames,  a  leather  writing  set  on  the 
desk,  curtains  of  pale  tan  English  casement  cloth  at 
the  windows.  A  cheerful  enough  little  room. 

There  were  many  elderly  widows  like  herself  living 
in  the  hotel  on  slender,  but  sufficient,  incomes.  They 
were  well-dressed  women  in  trim  suits  or  crepes,  and 
Field's  special  walking  oxfords;  and  small  smart 
hats.  They  did  a  little  cooking  in  their  rooms — not 
much,  they  hastened  to  tell  you.  Their  breakfasts 
only — a  CUp  of  coffee  and  a  roll  or  a  slice  of  toast, 
done  on  a  little  electric  grill,  the  coffee  above,  the 
toast  below.  The  hotel  dining  room  was  almost  free 
of  women  in  the  morning.  There  were  only  the  men, 
intent  on  their  papers,  and  their  eggs  and  the  8.40 
I.  C.  train.  It  was  like  a  men's  club,  except,  perhaps, 
for  an  occasional  business  woman  successful  enough 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  241 

or  indolent  enough  to  do  away  with  the  cooking  of 
the  surreptitious  matutinal  egg  in  her  own  room. 
Sometimes,  if  they  were  to  lunch  at  home,  they 
carried  in  a  bit  of  cold  ham,  or  cheese,  rolls,  butter, 
or  small  dry  groceries  concealed  in  muffs  or  hand 
bags.  They  even  had  diminutive  iceboxes  in  closets. 
The  hotel,  perforce,  shut  its  eyes  to  this  sort  of 
thing.  Even  permitted  the  distribution  of  tiny  cubes 
of  ice  by  the  hotel  porter.  It  was  a  harmless  kind 
of  cheating.  Their  good  dinners  they  ate  in  the 
hotel  dining  room  when  not  invited  to  dine  with 
married  sons  or  daughters  or  friends. 

At  ten  or  eleven  in  the  morning  you  saw  them  issue 
forth,  or  you  saw  "little"  manicures  going  in.  One 
spoke  of  these  as  "little"  not  because  of  their  size, 
which  was  normal,  but  in  definition  of  their  prices. 
There  were  "little"  dressmakers  as  well,  and  "little" 
tailors.  In  special  session  they  confided  to  one  an 
other  the  names  or  addresses  of  any  of  these  who 
happened  to  be  especially  deft,  or  cheap,  or  modish. 

"I've  found  a  little  tailor  over  on  Fifty-fifth.  I 
don't  want  you  to  tell  any  one  else  about  him.  Pie's 
wonderful.  He's  making  me  a  suit  that  looks  ex 
actly  like  the  model  Hexter's  got  this  year  and  guess 
what  he's  charging!"  The  guess  was,  of  course,  al 
ways  a  triumph  for  the  discoverer  of  the  little 
tailor. 

The  great  lake  dimpled  or  roared  not  twenty  feet 


242  GIGOLO 

away.  The  park  offered  shade  and  quiet.  The 
broad  veranda  invited  one  with  its  ample  armchairs. 
You  would  have  thought  that  peace  and  comfort  had 
come  at  last  to  this  shrewd,  knowledgeous,  hard- 
worked  woman  of  sixty.  She  was  handsomer  than 
she  had  been  at  twenty  or  thirty.  The  white  powder 
ing  her  black  hair  softened  her  face,  lightened  her 
sallow  skin,  gave  a  finer  lustre  to  her  dark  eyes.  She 
used  a  good  powder  and  had  an  occasional  facial 
massage.  Her  figure,  though  full,  was  erect,  firm, 
neat.  Around  her  throat  she  wore  an  inch-wide  band 
of  black  velvet  that  becomingly  hid  the  chords  and 
sagging  chin  muscles. 

Yet  now,  if  ever  in  her  life,  Hannah  Winter  was 
a  slave. 

Every  morning  at  eight  o'clock  Marcia  telephoned 
her  mother.  The  hotel  calls  cost  ten  cents,  but 
Marcia's  was  an  unlimited  phone.  The  conver 
sation  would  start  with  a  formula. 

"Hello — Mama?     .     .     .     How  are  you?" 

"Fine." 

"Sleep  all  right?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  never  sleep  all  night  through  any 
more." 

"Oh,  you  probably  just  think  you  don't.     .     . 
Are  you  doing  anything  special  this  morning?" 

"Well,  I Why?" 

"Nothing.     I  just  wondered  if  you'd  mind  taking 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  243 

Joan  to  the  dentist's.  Her  brace  came  off  again 
this  morning  at  breakfast.  I  don't  see  how  I  can 
take  her  because  Elsie's  giving  that  luncheon  at  one, 
you  know,  and  the  man's  coming  about  upholstering 
that  big  chair  at  ten.  I'd  call  up  and  try  to 
get  out  of  the  luncheon,  but  I've  promised,  and  there's 
bridge  afterward  and  it's  too  late  now  for  Elsie 
to  get  a  fourth.  Besides,  I  did  that  to  her  once  be 
fore  and  she  was  furious.  Of  course,  if  you 
can't  .  .  .  But  I  thought  if  you  haven't  any 
thing  to  do,  really,  why " 

Through  Hannah  Winter's  mind  would  flash  the 
events  of  the  day  as  she  had  planned  it.  She  had 
meant  to  go  downtown  shopping  that  morning. 
Nothing  special.  Some  business  at  the  bank. 
Mandel's  had  advertised  a  sale  of  foulards.  She 
hated  foulards  with  their  ugly  sprawling  pat 
terns.  A  nice,  elderly  sort  of  material.  Marcia 
was  always  urging  her  to  get  one.  Hannah  knew 
she  never  would.  She  liked  the  shops  in  their 
spring  vividness.  She  had  a  shrewd  eye  for  a 
bargain.  A  bite  of  lunch  somewhere;  then  she  had 
planned  to  drop  in  at  that  lecture  at  the  Woman's 
Club.  It  was  by  the  man  who  wrote  "Your 
Town."  He  was  said  to  be  very  lively  and  in 
sulting.  She  would  be  home  by  five,  running  in  to 
see  the  children  for  a  minute  before  going  to  her 
hotel  to  rest  before  dinner. 


GIGOLO 

A  selfish  day,  perhaps.  But  forty  years  of  un 
selfish  ones  had  paid  for  it.  Well.  Shopping 
with  nine-year-old  Joan  was  out  of  the  question. 
So,  too,  was  the  lecture.  After  the  dentist  had 
mended  the  brace  Joan  would  have  to  be  brought 
home  for  her  lunch.  Peter  would  be  there,  too. 
It  was  Easter  vacation  time.  Hannah  probably 
would  lunch  with  them,  in  Marcia's  absence,  nag 
ging  them  a  little  about  their  spinach  and  chop 
and  apple  sauce.  She  hated  to  see  the  two  chil 
dren  at  table  alone,  though  Marcia  said  that  was 
nonsense. 

Hannah  and  Marcia  differed  about  a  lot  of 
things.  Hannah  had  fallen  into  the  bad  habit  of 
saying,  "When  you  were  children  I  didn't " 

"Yes,  but  things  are  different  now,  please  re 
member,  Mother.  I  want  my  children  to  have  all 
the  advantages  I  can  give  them.  I  want  them  to 
have  all  the  advantages  I  never  had." 

If  Ed  was  present  at  such  times  he  would  look  1 
up  from  his  paper  to  say,  "The  kids  '11  never  thank  J 
you  for  it,  Marsh." 

"I  don't  want  them  to." 

There  was  something  strangely  familiar  about! 
the  whole  thing  as  it  sounded  in  Hannah's  ears. 

The  matter  of  the  brace,   alone.     There  was   a 
tiny     gap   between    Joan's    two   front     teeth    and,  ! 
strangely    enough,    between    Peter's    as    well.     It  1 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  245 

seemed  to  Hannah  that  every  well-to-do  child  in 
Hyde  Park  had  developed  this  gap  between  the 
two  incisors  and  that  all  the  soft  pink  child 
mouths  in  the  district  parted  to  display  a  hideous 
and  disfiguring  arrangement  of  complicated  wire 
and  metal.  The  process  of  bringing  these  teeth 
together  was  a  long  and  costly  one,  totalling  be 
tween  six  hundred  and  two  thousand  dollars,  de 
pending  on  the  reluctance  with  which  the  parted 
teeth  met,  and  the  financial  standing  of  the  teeths' 
progenitors.  Peter's  dental  process  was  not  to 
begin  for  another  year.  Eight  was  considered 
the  age.  It  seemed  to  be  as  common  as  vaccina 
tion. 

From  Hannah:  "I  don't  know  what's  the  matter 
with  children's  teeth  nowadays.  My  children's  teeth 
never  had  to  have  all  this  contraption  on  them.  You 
got  your  teeth  and  that  was  the  end  of  it." 

"Perhaps  if  they'd  paid  proper  attention  to 
them,"  Marcia  would  reply,  "there  wouldn't  be  so 
many  people  going  about  with  disfigured  jaws 
now." 

Then  there  were  the  dancing  lessons.  Joan 
went  twice  a  week,  Peter  once.  Joan  danced  very 
well  the  highly  technical  steps  of  the  sophisticated 
dances  taught  her  at  the  Krisiloff  School.  Her 
sturdy  little  legs  were  trained  at  the  practice  bar. 
Her  baby  arms  curved  obediently  above  her  head 


246  GIGOLO 

or  in  fixed  relation  to  the  curve  of  her  body  in  the 
dance.  She  understood  and  carried  into  effect 
the  French  technical  terms.  It  was  called  gym 
nastic  and  interpretive  dancing.  There  was 
about  it  none  of  the  spontaneity  with  which  a 
child  unconsciously  endows  impromptu  dance 
steps.  But  it  was  graceful  and  lovely.  Hannah 
thought  Joan  a  second  Pavlowa;  took  vast  de 
light  in  watching  her.  Taking  Joan  and  Peter  to 
these  dancing  classes  was  one  of  the  duties  that 
often  devolved  upon  her.  In  the  children's  early 
years  Marcia  had  attended  a  child  study  class 
twice  a  week  and  Hannah  had  more  or  less  minded 
the  two  in  their  mother's  absence.  The  incon 
gruity  of  this  had  never  struck  her.  Or  if  it  had 
she  had  never  mentioned  it  to  Marcia.  There 
were  a  good  many  things  she  never  mentioned  to 
Marcia.  Marcia  was  undoubtedly  a  conscientious 
mother,  thinking  of  her  children,  planning  for  her 
children,  hourly:  their  food,  their  clothes,  their 
training,  their  manners,  their  education.  Aspar 
agus;  steak;  French;  health  shoes;  fingernails; 
dancing;  teeth;  hair;  curtseys. 

"Train    all    the      independence     out     of     'em,: 
Hannah  said  sometimes,  grimly.     Not  to  Marcia, 
though.     She    said    it    sometimes    to    her    friends 
Julia  Pierce  or  Sarah  Clapp,  or  even  to  Vinie  Hard 
ing,  the  spinster  of  sixty,  for  all  three,  including 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES 

the  spinster  Vinie,  who  was  a  great-aunt,  seemed  to 
be  living  much  the  same  life  that  had  fallen  to 
Hannah  Winter's  lot. 

Hyde  Park  was  full  of  pretty,  well-dressed, 
energetic  young  mothers  who  were  leaning  hard 
upon  the  Hannah  Winters  of  their  own  families. 
You  saw  any  number  of  grey-haired,  modishly 
gowned  grandmothers  trundling  go-carts;  walk 
ing  slowly  with  a  moist  baby  fist  in  their  gentle 
clasp;  seated  on  park  benches  before  which  blue 
rompers  dug  in  the  sand  or  gravel  or  tumbled  on 
the  grass.  The  pretty  young  mothers  seemed  very 
busy,  too,  in  another  direction.  They  attended 
classes,  played  bridge,  marketed,  shopped,  man 
aged  their  households.  Some  of  them  had  gone  in 
for  careers.  None  of  them  seemed  conscious  of  the 
frequency  with  which  they  said,  "Mother,  will  you 
take  the  children  from  two  to  five  this  afternoon?" 
Or,  if  they  were  conscious  of  it,  they  regarded  it 
as  a  natural  and  normal  request.  What  are 
grandmothers  for? 

Hannah  Winter  loved  the  feel  of  the  small  vek 
vet  hands  in  her  own  palm.  The  clear  blue-white 
of  their  eyes,,  the  softness  of  their  hair,  the  very 
feel  of  their  firm,  strong  bare  legs  gave  her  an 
actual  pang  of  joy.  But  a  half  hour — an  hour — • 
with  them,  and  she  grew  restless,  irritable.  She 
cLJn't  try  to  define  this  feeling. 


248  GIGOLO 

"You  say  you  love  the  children.  And  yet  when 
I  ask  you  to  be  with  them  for  half  a  day " 

"I  do  love  them.     But  they  make  me  nervous." 

"I  don't  see  how  they  can  make  you  nervous  if 
you  really  care  about  them." 

Joan  was  Hannah's  favourite;  resembled  her. 
The  boy,  Peter,  was  blond,  like  his  mother.  In 
Joan  was  repeated  the  grandmother's  sallow  skin, 
dark  eyes,  vivacity,  force.  The  two,  so  far  apart 
in  years,  were  united  by  a  strong  natural  bond  of 
sympathy  and  alikeness.  When  they  were  to 
gether  on  some  errand  or  excursion  they  had  a  fine 
time.  If  it  didn't  last  too  long. 

Sometimes  the  young  married  women  would 
complain  to  each  other  about  their  mothers.  "I 
don't  ask  her  often,  goodness  knows.  But  I  think 
she  might  offer  to  take  the  children  one  or  two 
afternoons  during  their  vacation,  anyway.  She 
hasn't  a  thing  to  do.  Not  a  thing." 

Among  themselves  the  grandmothers  did  not 
say  so  much.  They  had  gone  to  a  sterner  school. 
But  it  had  come  to  this:  Hannah  was  afraid  to 
plan  her  day.  So  often  had  she  found  herself 
called  upon  to  forego  an  afternoon  at  bridge,  a 
morning's  shopping,  an  hour's  mending,  even,  or 
reading. 

She  often  had  dinner  at  Marcia's,  but  not  as 
often  as  she  was  asked.  More  and  more  she 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  249 

longed  for  and  appreciated  the  orderly  quiet  and 
solitude  of  her  own  little  room.  She  never  an' 
alyzed  this,  nor  did  Marcia  or  Ed.  It  was  a  crav 
ing  for  relaxation  on  the  part  of  body  and  nerves 
strained  throughout  almost  half  a  century  of  in 
tensive  living. 

Ed  and  Marcia  were  always  doing  charming 
things  for  her.  Marcia  had  made  the  cushions 
and  the  silk  lampshades  for  her  room.  Marcia 
was  always  bringing  her  jellies,  and  a  quarter  of 
a  freshly  baked  cake  done  in  black  Lutie's  best 
style.  Ed  and  Marcia  insisted  periodically  on 
her  going  with  them  to  the  theatre  or  downtown 
for  dinner,  or  to  one  of  the  gardens  where  there 
was  music  and  dancing  and  dining.  This  was 
known  as  "taking  mother  out."  Hannah  Winter 
didn't  enjoy  these  affairs  as  much,  perhaps,  as  she 
should  have.  She  much  preferred  a  mild  spree 
with  one  of  her  own  cronies.  Ed  was  very  care 
ful  of  her  at  street  crossings  and  going  down 
steps,  and  joggled  her  elbow  a  good  deal.  This 
irked  her,  though  she  tried  not  to  show  it.  She 
preferred  a  matinee,  or  a  good  picture  or  a  con 
cert  with  Sarah,  or  Vinie,  or  Julia.  They  could 
giggle,  and  nudge  and  comment  like  girls  together, 
and  did.  Indeed,  they  were  girls  in  all  but  out 
ward  semblance.  Among  one  another  they  recog 
nized  this.  Their  sense  of  enjoyment  was  un- 


250  GIGOLO 

dulled.  They  liked  a  double  chocolate  ice  cream 
soda  as  well  as  ever;  a  new  gown;  an  interesting 
book.  As  for  people!  Why,  at  sixty  the  world 
walked  before  them,  these  elderly  women,  its  mind 
unclothed,  all-revealing.  This  was  painful,  some 
times,  but  interesting  always.  It  was  one  of  the 
penalties — and  one  of  the  rewards — of  living. 

After   some     such     excursion     Hannah     couldn't 
very  well  refuse  to  take  the  children  to  see  a  Fair 
banks  film   on  a   Sunday   afternoon  when  Ed   and 
Marcia  were  spending  the  half-day  at  the  country 
club.     Marcia  was  very   strict   about   the   children 
and  the  films.     They  were   allowed   the   saccharine 
Pickford,    and    of    course    Fairbanks's    gravity-de 
fying  feats,  and   Chaplin's  gorgeous   grotesqueries. 
You   had    to    read    the    titles    for    Peter.     Hannah 
wasn't  as  quick  at  this  as  were  Ed  or  Marcia,  and 
Peter  was  sometimes  impatient,  though  politely  so. 
And  so   sixty   swung  round.     At   sixty   Hannah 
Winter  had  a  suitor.     Inwardly  she  resented  him. 
At  sixty  Clint  Darrow,  a  widower  now  and  rever 
ent  in  speech  of  the  departed  one  whose  extrava 
gance  he  had  deplored,  came  to  live  at  the  hotel  in 
three-room    grandeur,    overlooking    the    lake.        A 
ruddy,  corpulent,  paunchy  little  man,  and   rakish 
withal.     The    hotel    widows    made  much    of    him. 
Hannah,  holding  herself  aloof,  was  often  surprised 
to   find   her    girlhood    flame   hovering     near     now, 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  251 

speaking  of  loneliness,  of  trips  abroad,  of  a  string 
of  pearls  unused.  There  was  something  virgin 
about  the  way  Hannah  received  these  advances. 
Marriage  was  so  far  from  her  thoughts ;  this  kind 
ly,  plump  little  man  so  entirely  outside  her  plans, 
He  told  her  his  troubles,  which  should  have  warned 
her.  She  gave  him  some  shrewd  advice,  which  en 
couraged  him.  He  rather  fancied  himself  as  a 
Lothario.  He  was  secretly  distressed  about  his 
rotund  waist  line  and,  theoretically,  never  ate  a 
bite  of  lunch.  "I  never  touch  a  morsel  from 
breakfast  until  dinner  time."  Still  you  might  see 
him  any  day  at  noon  at  the  Congress,  or  at  the 
Athletic  Club,  or  at  one  of  the  restaurants  known 
for  its  savoury  food,  busy  with  one  of  the  richer 
luncheon  dishes  and  two  cups  of  thick  creamy  coffee. 
Though  the  entire  hotel  was  watching  her  Hannah 
was  actually  unconscious  of  Clint  Darrow's 
attentions,  or  their  markedness,  until  her  son-in- 
law  Ed  teased  her  about  him  one  day.  "Some 
gal!"  said  Ed,  and  roared  with  laughter.  She 
resented  this  indignantly;  felt  that  they  re 
garded  her  as  senile.  She  looked  upon  Clint  Dar- 
row  as  a  fat  old  thing,  if  she  looked  at  him  at  all; 
but  rather  pathetic,  too.  Hence  her  kindliness 
toward  him.  Now  she  avoided  him.  Thus  goaded 
he  actually  proposed  marriage  and  repeated  the 
items  of  the  European  trip,  the  pearls,  and  the  un- 


252  GIGOLO 

used  house  on  Woodlawn  Avenue.  Hannah,  feeling 
suddenly  faint  and  white,  refused  him  awkwardly. 
She  was  almost  indignant.  She  did  not  speak  of  it, 
but  the  hotel,  somehow,  knew.  Hyde  Park  knew. 
The  thing  leaked  out. 

"But  why?"  said  Marcia,  smiling — giggling,  al 
most.  "Why?  I  think  it  would  have  been  wonder 
ful  for  you,  Mother!" 

Hannah  suddenly  felt  that  she  need  not  degrade 
herself  to  explain  why — she  who  had  once  triumphed 
over  her  own  ordeal  of  marriage. 

Marcia  herself  was  planning  a  new  career.  The 
children  were  seven  and  nine — very  nearly  eight  and 
ten.  Marcia  said  she  wanted  a  chance  at  self- 
expression.  She  announced  a  course  in  landscape 
gardening — "landscape  architecture"  was  the  new 
term. 

"Chicago's  full  of  people  who  are  moving  to  the 
suburbs  and  buying  big  places  out  north.  They 
don't  know  a  thing  about  gardens.  They  don't  know 
a  shrub  from  a  tree  when  they  see  it.  It's  a  new  field 
for  women — in  the  country,  at  least — and  I'm  dying 
to  try  it.  That  youngest  Fraser  girl  makes  heaps, 
and  I  never  thought  much  of  her  intelligence.  Of 
course,  after  I  finish  and  am  ready  to  take  com 
missions,  I'll  have  to  be  content  with  small  jobs,  at 
first.  But  later  I  may  get  a  chance  at  grounds 
around  public  libraries  and  hospitals  and  railway 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  253 

stations.  And  if  I  can  get  one  really  big  job  at  one 
of  those  new-rich  north  shore  places  I'll  be  made." 

The  course  required  two  years  and  was  rather  ex 
pensive.  But  Marcia  said  it  would  pay,  in  the  end. 
Besides,  now  that  the  war  had  knocked  Ed's  business 
into  a  cocked  hat  for  the  next  five  years  or  more, 
the  extra  money  would  come  in  very  handy  for  the 
children  and  herself  and  the  household. 

Hannah  thought  the  whole  plan  nonsense.  "I 
can't  see  that  you're  pinched,  exactly.  You  may 
have  to  think  a  minute  before  you  buy  fresh  straw 
berries  for  a  meringue  in  February.  But  you  do 
buy  them,"  She  was  remembering  her  own  lean 
days,  when  February  strawberries  would  have  been 
as  unattainable  as  though  she  had  dwelt  on  a  desert 
island. 

On  the  day  of  the  mirror  accident  in  Peacock 
Alley,  Hannah  was  meeting  Marcia  downtown  for  the 
purpose  of  helping  her  select  spring  outfits  for  the 
children.  Later,  Marcia  explained,  there  would  be  no 
time.  Her  class  met  every  morning  except  Satur 
day.  Hannah  tried  to  deny  the  little  pang  of  terror 
at  the  prospect  of  new  responsibility  that  this  latest 
move  of  Marcia's  seemed  about  to  thrust  upon  her. 
Marcia  wasn't  covering  her  own  job,  she  told  her 
self.  Why  take  another!  She  had  given  up  an 
afternoon  with  Sarah  because  of  this  need  of  Mar 
cia's  to-day.  Marcia  depended  upon  her  mother's 


254  GIGOLO 

shopping  judgment  more  than  she  admitted.  Think 
ing  thus,  and  conscious  of  her  tardiness  (she  had 
napped  for  ten  minutes  after  lunch)  Hannah  Winter 
had  met,  face  to  face,  with  a  crash,  this  strange, 
strained,  rather  haggard  elderly  woman  in  the 
mirror. 

It  was,  then,  ten  minutes  later  than  2.07  when  she 
finally  came  up  to  Marcia  waiting,  lips  compressed, 
at  the  Michigan  Avenue  entrance,  as  planned. 

"I  bumped  into  that  mirror 

"Oh,  Mom!     I'm  sorry.     Are  you  hurt?     How  in 
the     world?     .     .      .      Such      a      morning     .     .     . 
wash    day     .      .     .      children    their    lunch 
marketing     ....     wall  paper     .     .    .     Fifty- 
third  Street     .     .     .     two  o'clock     .     .     ." 

Suddenly,  "Yes,  I  know,"  said  Hannah  Winter, 
tartly.  "I  had  to  do  all  those  things  and  more, 
forty  years  ago." 

Marcia  had  a  list.  .  .  .  Let's  see 
Those  smocked  dresses  for  Joan  would  probably  be 
all  picked  over  by  this  time  .  .  .  Light-weight 
underwear  for  Peter  .  .  .  Joan's  cape  .  .  .. 
\  Hannah  Winter  felt  herself  suddealy  remote  from 
all  this ;  done  with  it ;  finished  years  and  years  ago. 
What  had  she  to  do  with  smocked  dresses,  children's 
underwear,  capes?  But  she  went  in  and  out  of  the 
shops,  up  and  down  the  aisles,  automatically,  gave 
expert  opinion.  By  five  it  was  over.  Hannah  felt 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  255 

tired,  depressed.  She  was  to  have  dinner  at  Mar- 
cia's  to-night.  She  longed,  now,  for  her  own  roomtf 
Wished  she  might  go  to  it  and  stay  there,  quietly. 

"Marcia,  I  don't  think  I'll  come  to  dinner  to 
night.  I'm  so  tired.  I  think  I'll  just  go  home '* 

"But  I  got  the  broilers  specially  for  you,  and  the 
sweet  potatoes  candied  the  way  you  like  them,  and  a 
lemon  cream  pie." 

When  they  reached  home  they  found  Joan,  listless, 
on  the  steps.  One  of  her  sudden  sore  throats. 
Stomach,  probably.  A  day  in  bed  for  her.  By  to 
morrow  she  would  be  quite  all  right.  Hannah 
Winter  wondered  why  she  did  not  feel  more  concern. 
Joan's  throats  had  always  thrown  her  into  a  greater 
panic  than  she  had  ever  felt  at  her  own  children's 
illnesses.  To-day  she  felt  apathetic,  indifferent. 

She  helped  tuck  the  rebellious  Joan  in  bed.  Joan 
was  spluttering  about  some  plan  for  to-morrow. 
And  Marcia  was  saying,  "But  you  can't  go  to 
morrow,  Joan.  You  know  you  can't,  with  that 
throat.  Mother  will  have  to  stay  home  with  you, 
too,  and  give  up  her  plans  to  go  to  the  country  club 
with  Daddy,  and  it's  the  last  chance  she'll  have,  too, 
for  a  long,  long  time.  So  you're  not  the  only  one 
to  suffer."  Hannah  Winter  said  nothing. 

They  went  in  to  dinner  at  6.30.  It  was  a  good 
dinner.  Hannah  Winter  ate  little,  said  little.  In 
side  Hannah  Winter  a  voice — a  great,  strong  voice, 


256  GIGOLO 

shaking  v.-;th  its  own  earnestness  and  force — was 
shouting  in  rebellion.  And  over  and  over  it  said,  to 
the  woman  in  the  mirror  at  the  north  end  of  Peacock 
Alley :  "Three  score— and  ten  to  go.  That's  what 
it  says — 'and  ten.'  And  I  haven't  done  a  thing  I've 
wanted  to  do.  I'm  afraid  to  do  the  things  I  want 
to  do.  We  all  are,  because  of  our  sons  and 
daughters.  Ten  years.  I  don't  want  to  spend  those 
ten  years  taking  care  of  my  daughter's  children. 
I've  taken  care  of  my  own.  A  good  job,  too.  No 
one  ^elped  me.  No  one  helped  me.  What's  the 
matter  with  these  modern  mothers,  with  their  new 
fangled  methods  and  their  efficiency  and  all?  May 
be  I'm  an  unnatural  grandmother,  but  I'm  going 
to  tell  Marcia  the  truth.  Yes,  I  am.  If  she  asks 
me  to  stay  home  with  Joan  and  Peter  to-morrow, 
while  she  and  Ed  go  off  to  the  country  club,  I'm  going 
to  say,  'No !'  I'm  going  to  say,  'Listen  to  me,  Ed 
and  Marcia.  I  don't  intend  to  spend  the  rest  of 
my  life  toddling  children  to  the  park  and  playing 
second  assistant  nursemaid.  I'm  too  old — or  too 
young.  I've  only  got  ten  years  to  go,  according  to 
the  Bible,  and  I  want  to  have  my  fun.  I've  sown. 
I  want  to  reap.  My  teeth  are  pretty  good,  and  so 
is  my  stomach.  They're  better  than  yours  will  be 
at  my  age,  for  all  your  smart  new  dentists.  So  are 
my  heart  and  my  arteries  and  my  liver  and  my 
nerves.  Well.  I  don't  want  luxury.  What  I  want 


THE  SUDDEN  SIXTIES  257 

is  leisure.  I  want  to  do  the  things  I've  wanted 
to  do  for  forty  years,  and  couldn't.  I  want,  if  I 
feel  like  it,  to  start  to  learn  French  and  read  Jane 
Austen  and  stay  in  bed  till  noon.  I  never  could  stay 
in  bed  till  noon,  and  I  know  I  can't  learn  now,  but 
I'm  going  to  do  it  once,  if  it  kills  me.  I'm  too  old 
to  bring  up  a  second  crop  of  children,  I  want  to 
play.  It's  terrible  to  realize  that  you  don't  learn 
how  to  live  until  you're  ready  to  die;  and,  then  it's 
too  late.  I  know  I  sound  like  a  selfish  old  woman, 
and  I  am,  and  I  don't  care.  I  don't  care.  I  want 
to  be  selfish.  So  will  you,  too,  when  you're  sixty, 
Martha  Slocum.  You  think  you're  young.  But  all 
of  a  sudden  you'll  be  sixty,  like  me.  All  of  a  sudden 
you'll  realize " 

"Mother,  you're  not  eating  a  thing."  Ed's  kindly 
voice. 

Marcia,  flushed  of  face,  pushed  her  hair  back 
from  her  forehead  with  a  little  frenzied  familiar  ges 
ture.  "Eat!  Who  could  eat  with  Joan  making 
that  insane  racket  in  there !  Ed,  will  you  tell  her  to 
stop !  Can't  you  speak  to  her  just  once !  After  all, 
she  is  your  child,  too,  you  know.  .  .  .  Peter,  eat 
your  lettuce  or  you  can't  have  any  dessert." 

How  tired  she  looked,  Hannah  Winter  thought. 
Little  Martha.  Two  babies,  and  she  only  a  baby 
herself  yesterday.  How  tired  she  looked. 

"I  wanna  go!"  wailed  Joan,  from  her  bedroom 


258  GIGOLO 

prison.  "I  wanna  go  to-morrow.  You  promised 
me.  You  said  I  could.  I  wanna  GO !" 

"And  I  say  you  can't.  Mother  has  to  give  up 
her  holiday,  too,  because  of  you.  And  yet  you 
don't  hear  me " 

"You!"  shouted  the  naughty  Joan,  great-grand 
daughter  of  her  great-grandmother,  and  grand 
daughter  of  her  grandmamma.  "You  don't  care. 
Giving  up's  easy  for  you.  You're  an  old  lady." 

And  then  Hannah  Winter  spoke  up.  "I'll  stay 
with  her  to-morrow,  Marcia.  You  and  Ed  go  and 
have  a  good  time." 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL! 

The  fabric  of  my  faithful  love 
No  power  shall  dim  or  ravel 
Whilst  I  stay  here, — but  oh,  my  dear^ 
If  I  should  ever  travel ! 

— Millay. 

IF  YOU'VE  spent  more  than  one  day  in  Okoo- 
chee,  Oklahoma,  you've  had  dinner  at  Pardee's. 
Someone — a  business  acquaintance,  a  friend, 
a  townsman — has  said,  "Oh,  you  stopping  at  the 
Okmulgee  Hotel?  WON— derful,  isn't  it?  Noth 
ing  finer  here  to  the  Coast.  I  bet  you  thought  you 
were  coming  to  the  wilderness,  didn't  you?  You 
Easterners !  Think  we  live  in  tents  and  eat  jerked 
venison  and  maize,  huh?  Never  expected,  I  bet,  to 
see  a  twelve-story  hotel  with  separate  ice-water  fau 
cet  in  every  bathroom  and  a  bath  to  every  room. 
What'd  you  think  of  the  Peacock  grill,  h'm?" 

"Well — uh" — hesitatingly — "very  nice,  but  why 
don't  you  have  something  native  .  .  .  Decora 
tions  and  .  .  .  Peacock  grill  is  New  York,  not 

Okla " 

"Z'that  so !  Well,  let  me  tell  you  you  won't  find 
any  better  food  or  service  in  any  restaurant,  New 

259 


260  GIGOLO 

York  or  I  don't  care  where.  But  say,  hotel  meals  are 
hotel  meals.  You  get  tired  of  'em.  Ever  eat  at  Par- 
dee's,  up  the  street?  Say,  there's  food!  If  you're 
going  to  be  here  in  town  any  time  why'n't  you  call 
up  there  some  evening  before  six — you  have  to  leave 
'em  know — and  get  one  of  Pardee's  dinners? 
Thursday's  chicken.  And  when  I  say  chicken  I  mean 

Well,  just  try  it,  that's  all.  .  .  .  And  for 

God's  sake  don't  make  a  mistake  and  tip  Maxine." 

Pardee's  you  find  to  be  a  plain  box-like  two-story 
frame  house  in  a  quiet  and  commonplace  residential 
district.  Plainly — almost  scantily — furnished  as 
to  living  room  and  dining  room.  The  dining  room 
comfortably  seats  just  twenty,  but  the  Pardees 
"take"  eighteen  diners — no  more.  This  because 
Mrs.  Pardee  has  eighteen  of  everything  in  silver. 
And  that  means  eighteen  of  everything  from  grape 
fruit  spoons  to  cheese  knives;  and  finger  bowls 
before  and  after  until  you  feel  like  an  early  Roman. 
As  for  Maxine — the  friendly  warning  is  superfluous. 
You  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  slipping  Hebe 
a  quarter  on  Olympus — a  rather  severe-featured 
Hebe  in  a  white  silk  blouse  ordered  through  Vogue. 

All  this  should  have  been  told  in  the  past  tense, 
because  Pardee's  is  no  more.  But  Okoochee,  Okla 
homa,  is  full  of  paradoxes  like  Pardee's.  Before 
you  understand  Maxine  Pardee  and  her  mother  in 
the  kitchen  (dishing  up)  you  have  to  know  Okoo- 


IF  /  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!        261 

chee.  And  before  you  know  Okoochee  you  have  to 
know  Sam  Pardee,  missing. 

There  are  all  sorts  of  stories  about  Okoochee, 
Oklahoma — and  almost  every  one  of  them  is  true. 
Especially  are  the  fantastic  ones  true — the  incredible 
ones.  The  truer  they  are  the  more  do  they  make  such 
Arabian  knights  as  Aladdin  and  Ali  Baba  appear 
dull  and  worthy  gentlemen  in  the  retail  lamp  and 
oil  business,  respectively.  Ali  B aba's  exploit  in  oil, 
indeed,  would  have  appeared  too  trivial  for  recount 
ing  if  compared  with  that  of  any  one  of  a  dozen 
Okoochee  oil  wizards. 

Take  the  tale  of  the  Barstows  alone,  though  it 
hasn't  the  slightest  bearing  on  this  story.  Thirteen 
>  years  ago  the  Barstows  had  a  parched  little  farm  on 
the  outskirts  of  what  is  now  the  near-metropolis  of 
Okoochee,  but  what  was  then  a  straggling  village  in 
the  Indian  Territory.  Ma  Barstow  was  a  woman  of 
thirty-five  who  looked  sixty;  withered  by  child- 
bearing;  scorched  by  the  sun;  beaten  by  the  wind; 
gnarled  with  toil;  gritty  with  dust.  Ploughing  the 
barren  little  farm  one  day  Clem  Barstow  had  noticed 
k  a  strange  oily  scum.  It  seeped  up  through  the  soil 
and  lay  there,  heavily.  Oil!  Weeks  of  suspense, 
weeks  of  disappointment,  weeks  of  hope.  Through 
it  all  Ma  Barstow  had  washed,  scrubbed,  cooked  as 
usual,  and  had  looked  after  the  welfare  oi  the  Bar- 
0tow  litter.  Seventeen  years  of  drudgery  dull  the 


262  GIGOLO 

imagination.  When  they  struck  the  great  gush< 
it's  still  known  as  Barstow's  Old  Faithful — they  came 
running  to  her  with  the  news.  She  had  been  washing 
a  great  tubful  of  harsh  greasy  clothes — overalls, 
shirts,  drawers.  As  the  men  came,  shouting,  she 
appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  crazy  wooden  lean- 
to,  wiping  her  hands  on  her  apron. 

"Oil !"  they  shouted,  idiotically.  "Millions ! 
Biggest  gusher  yet !  It'll  mean  millions !  You're  a 
millionaire!"  Then,  as  she  looked  at  them,  dazedly, 
"What're  you  going  to  do,  Mis'  Barstow,  huh? 
What're  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?" 

Ma  Barstow  had  brought  one  hand  up  to  push 
back  a  straggling  wisp  of  damp  hair.  Then  she 
looked  at  that  hand  as  she  brought  it  down — looked 
at  it  and  it's  mate,  parboiled,  shrunken,  big-knuckled 
from  toil.  She  wiped  them  both  on  her  apron  again, 
bringing  the  palms  down  hard  along  her  flat  thighs. 
"Do?"  The  miracles  that  millions  might  accomplish 
burst  full  force  on  her  work-numbed  brain.  "Do? 
First  off  I'm  a-going  to  have  the  washing  done 
out." 

Last  week  Mrs.  Clement  Barstow  was  runner-up 
in  the  women's  amateur  golf  tournament  played  on 
the  Okoochee  eighteen-hole  course.  She  wore  tweed 
knickers.  The  Barstow  place  on  the  Edgecombe 
Road  is  so  honeycombed  with  sleeping  porches,  sun 
dials,  swimming  pools,  bird  baths,  terraces,  sunken 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!         263 

gardens,  and  Italian  marble  benches  that  the  second 
assistant  Japanese  gardener  has  to  show  you  the 
way  to  the  tennis  courts. 

That's  Okoochee. 

It  was  inevitable  that  Sam  Pardee  should  hear  of 
Okoochee;  and,  hearing  of  it,  drift  there.  Sam 
Pardee  was  drawn  to  a  new  town,  a  boom  town,  as 
unerringly  as  a  small  boy  scents  a  street  fight. 
Born  seventy-five  years  earlier  he  would  certainly 
have  been  one  of  those  intrepid  Forty-niners ;  a  fear 
less  canvas-covered  fleet  crawling  painfully  across 
a  continent,  conquering  desert  and  plain  and  moun 
tain;  starving,  thirsting,  fighting  Indians,  eating 
each  other  if  necessity  demanded,  with  equal  dex 
terity  and  dispatch.  Perhaps  a  trip  like  this  would 
have  satisfied  his  wanderlust.  Probably  not.  He 
was  like  a  child  in  a  berry  patch.  The  fruit  just 
beyond  was  always  the  ripest  and  reddest.  The 
Klondike  didn't  do  it.  He  was  one  of  the  first  up 
the  Yukon  in  that  mad  rush.  He  returned  minus  all 
the  money  and  equipment  with  which  he  had  started, 
including  the  great  toe  of  his  right  foot — tribute 
levied  by  the  frozen  North.  From  boom  town  to 
boom  town  he  went.  The  first  stampede  always 
found  him  there,  deep  in  blue-prints,  engineering 
sheets,  prospectuses.  But  no  sooner  did  the  town 
install  a  water-works  and  the  First  National  Bank 
house  itself  in  a  Portland-cement  Greek  temple  with 


264  GIGOLO 

Roman  pillars  and  a  mosaic  floor  than  he  grew  rest 
less  and  was  on  the  move. 

A  swashbuckler,  Sam  Pardee,  in  tan  shoes  and  a 
brown  derby.  An  1890  Villon  handicapped  by  a 
home-loving  wife;  an  incurable  romantic  married 
to  a  woman  who  judged  as  shiftless  any  housewife 
possessed  of  less  than  two  dozen  bath  towels,  twelve 
tablecloths,  eighteen  wash  cloths,  and  at  least  three 
dozen  dish  towels,  hand-hemmed.  Milly  Pardee's 
idea  of  adventure  was  testing  the  recipes  illustrated 
in  the  How  To  Use  The  Cheaper  Cuts  page  in  the 
back  of  the  woman's  magazines. 

Perversely  enough,  they  had  been  drawn  together 
by  the  very  attraction  of  dissimilarity.  He  had 
found  her  feminine  home-loving  qualities  most 
appealing.  His  manner  of  wearing  an  invisible 
cloak,  sword  and  buckler,  though  actually  garbed 
in  ready-mades,  thrilled  her.  She  had  come  of  a 
good  family;  he  of,  seemingly,  no  family  at  all. 
When  the  two  married,  Milly's  people  went  through 
that  ablutionary  process  known  as  washing  their 
hands  of  her.  Thus  ideally  mismated  they  tried  to 
make  the  best  of  it — and  failed.  At  least,  Sam 
Pardee  failed.  Milly  Pardee  said,  "Goodness  knows 
I  tried  to  be  a  good  wife  to  him."  The  plaint  of 
all  unappreciated  wives  since  Griselda. 

Theirs  was  a  feast-and-famine  existence.  Some 
times  Sam  Pardee  made  sudden  thousands.  Mrs. 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!        265 

'Pardee  would  buy  silver,  linen,  and  other  household 
furnishings  ranging  all  the  way  from  a  grand  piano 
to  a  patent  washing  machine.  The  piano  and  the 
washing  machine  usually  were  whisked  away  within  a 
few  weeks  or  months,  at  the  longest.  But  she  cannily 
had  the  linen  and  silver  stamped — stamped  unmis 
takably  and  irrevocably  with  a  large,  flourishing 
capital  P,  embellished  with  floral  wreaths.  Even 
tually  some  of  the  silver  went  the  way  of  the  piano 
and  washing  machine.  But  Milly  Pardee  clung 
stubbornly  to  a  dozen  and  a  half  of  everything. 
She  seemed  to  feel  that  if  once  she  had  less  than 
eighteen  fish  forks  the  last  of  the  solid  ground  of 
family  respectability  would  sink  under  her  feet. 
For  years  she  carried  that  silver  about  wrapped  in 
trunks  full  of  the  precious  linen,  and  in  old  under 
wear  and  cotton  flannel  kimonos  and  Sam's  silk  socks 
and  Maxine's  discarded  baby-clothes.  She  clung  to 
it  desperately,  as  other  women  cling  to  jewels,  know 
ing  that  when  this  is  gone  no  more  will  follow. 

When  the  child  was  born  Milly  Pardee  wanted  to 
name  her  Myrtle  but  her  husband  had  said,  suddenly, 
"No,  call  her  Maxine." 

"After  whom?"  In  Mrs.  Pardee's  code  you 
named  a  child  "after"  someone. 

He  had  seen  Maxine  Elliott  in  the  heyday  of  her 
coldj  clear,  brainless  beauty,  with  her  great,  slightly 
protuberant  eyes  set  so  far  apart,  her  exquisitely 


266  GIGOLO 

chiselled  white  nose,  and  her  black  black  hair.  She 
had  thrilled  him. 

"After  my  Uncle  Max  that  lives  in — uh — Aus 
tralia." 

"I've  never  heard  you  talk  of  any  Uncle  Max," 
said  Mrs.  Pardee,  coldly. 

But  the  name  had  won.  How  could  they  know 
that  Maxine  would  grow  up  to  be  a  rather  bony 
young  woman  who  preferred  these  high-collared 
white  silk  blouses ;  and  said  "eyether." 

Maxine  had  been  about  twelve  when  Okoochee 
beckoned  Sam  Pardee.  They  were  living  in  Chicago 
at  the  time ;  had  been  there  for  almost  three  years — 
that  is,  Mrs.  Pardee  and  Maxine  had  been  there. 
Sam  was  in  and  out  on  some  mysterious  business 
of  his  own.  His  affairs  were  always  spoken  of  as 
"deals"  or  "propositions."  And  they  always,  seem 
ingly,  required  his  presence  in  a  city  other  than  that 
in  which  they  were  living — if  living  can  be  said  to 
describe  the  exceedingly  impermanent  perch  to  which 
they  clung.  They  had  a  four-room  flat.  Maxine 
was  attending  a  good  school.  Mrs.  Pardee  was 
using  the  linen  and  silver  daily.  There  was  a  linen 
closet  down  the  hall,  just  off  the  dining  room.  You 
could  open  the  door  and  feast  your  eyes  on  orderly 
piles  of  neatly  laundered  towels,  sheets,  tablecloths, 
napkins,  tea  towels.  Mrs.  Pardee  marketed  and 
cooked,  contentedly.  She  was  more  than  a  merely 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!        267 

good  cook;  she  was  an  alchemist  in  food  stuffs. 
Given  such  raw  ingredients  as  butter,  sugar,  flour, 
eggs,  she  could  evolve  a  structure  of  pure  gold 
that  melted  on  the  tongue.  She  could  take  an  och- 
erous  old  hen,  dredge  its  parts  in  flour,  brown  it 
in  fat  sizzling  with  onion  at  the  bottom  of  an  iron 
kettle,  add  water,  a  splash  of  tomato  and  a  pinch 
of  seasoning,  and  bear  triumphantly  to  the  table  a 
platter  heaped  with  tender  fricassee  over  which  a 
smooth,  saddle-brown  gravy  simmered  fragrantly. 
She  ate  little  herself,  as  do  most  expert  cooks,  and 
found  her  reward  when  Sam  or  Maxine  uttered  a 
choked  and  appreciative  "Mmm!" 

In  the  midst  of  creature  comforts  such  as  these 
Sam  Pardee  said,  one  evening,  "Oil." 

Mrs.  Pardee  passed  it,  but  not  without  remon 
strance.  "It's  the  same  identical  French  dressing 
you  had  last  night,  Sam.  I  mixed  enough  for  twice. 
And  you  didn't  add  any  oil  last  night." 

Sam  Pardee  came  out  of  his  abstraction  long 
enough  to  emit  a  roar  of  laughter  and  an  unsatis 
factory  explanation.  "I  was  thinking  of  oil  in 
wells,  not  in  cruets.  Millions  of  barrels  of  oil,  not 
a  spoonful.  Crude,  not  olive." 

She  saw  her  child,  her  peace,  her  linen  closet 
threatened.  "Sam  Pardee,  you  don't  mean " 

"Oklahoma.  That's  what  I  meant  by  oil.  It's 
oozing  with  it." 


268  GIGOLO 

Real  terror  leaped  into  Milly  Pardee's  eyes. 

"Not  Oklahoma.  Sam,  I  couldn't  stand " 

Suddenly  she  stiffened  with  resolve.  Maxine's  re 
port  card  had  boasted  three  stars  that  week.  Okla 
homa!  Why,  there  probably  were  no  schools  at 
all  in  Oklahoma.  "I  won't  bring  my  child  up  in 
Oklahoma.  Indians,  that's  what!  Scalped  in  our 
beds." 

Above  Sam  Pardee's  roar  sounded  Maxine's  ex 
cited  treble.  "Oo,  Oklahoma !  I'd  love  it." 

Her  mother  turned  on  her,  almost  fiercely.  "You 
wouldn't." 

The  child  had  thrown  out  her  arms  in  a  wide 
gesture.  "It  sounds  so  far  away  and  different.  I 
like  different  places.  I  like  any  place  that  isn't 
here." 

Milly  Pardee  had  stared  at  her.  It  was  the 
father  talking  in  the  child.  Any  place  that  isn't 
here.  Different. 

Out  of  years  of  bitter  experience  she  tried  to 
convince  the  child  of  her  error;  tried,  as  she  had 
striven  for  years  to  convince  Sam  Pardee. 

"Places  are  just  the  same,"  she  said,  bitterly,' 
"and  so  are  people,  when  you  get  to  'em." 

"They  can't  be,"  the  child  argued,  stubbornly. 
"India  and  China  and  Spain  and  Africa." 

Milly  Pardee  had  turned  accusing  eyes  on  her 
amused  husband.  "I  hope  you're  satisfied." 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!        269 

He  shrugged.  "Well,  the  kid's  right.  That's 
living." 

She  disputed  this,  fiercely.  "It  is  not.  Living's 
staying  in  a  place,  and  helping  it  grow,  and  grow 
ing  up  with  it  and  belonging.  Belong!"  It  was 
the  cry  of  the  rolling  stone  that  is  bruised  and 
weary. 

Sam  Pardee  left  for  Oklahoma  the  following  week. 
Milly  Pardee  refused  to  accompany  him.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  taken  this  stand.  "If  you  go 
there,  and  like  it,  and  want  to  settle  down  there,  I'll 
come.  I  know  the  Bible  says,  'Whither  thou  goest, 
I  will  go,'  but  I  guess  even  What'shername  would 
have  given  up  at  Oklahoma." 

For  three  years,  then,  Sam  Pardee's  letters  reeked 
of  oil:  wells,  strikes,  gushers,  drills,  shares,  out 
fits.  It  was  early  Oklahoma  in  the  rough.  This 
one  was  getting  five  hundred  a  day  out  of  his  well. 
That  one  had  sunk  forty  thousand  in  his  and  lost 
out. 

"Five  hundred  what?"  Maxine  asked.  "Forty 
thousand  what?" 

"Dollars,  I  guess,"  Milly  Pardee  answered. 
"That's  the  way  your  father  always  talks.  I'd 
rather  have  twenty-five  a  week,  myself,  and  know  it's 
coming  without  fail." 

"I  wouldn't.     Where's  the  fun  in  that  ?" 

"Fun!     There's  more  fun  in  twenty-five  a  week 


270  GIGOLO 

in  a  pay  envelope  than  in  forty  thousand  down  a  dry 
well." 

Maxine  was  fifteen  now.  "I  wish  we  could  live 
with  Father  in  Oklahoma.  I  think  it's  wrong  not 
to." 

Milly  Pardee  was  beginning  to  think  so,  too. 
Especially  since  her  husband's  letters  had  grown 
rarer  as  the  checks  they  contained  had  grown  larger. 
On  his  occasional  trips  back  to  Chicago  he  said  noth 
ing  of  their  joining  him  out  there.  He  seemed  to 
have  grown  accustomed  to  living  alone.  Liked  the 
freedom,  the  lack  of  responsibility.  In  sudden  fright 
and  resolve  Milly  Pardee  sold  the  furnishings  of  the 
four-room  flat,  packed  the  peripatetic  linen  and  sil 
ver,  and  joined  a  surprised  and  rather  markedly 
unenthusiastic  husband  in  Okoochee,  Oklahoma. 
A  wife  and  a  fifteen-year-old  daughter  take  a  good 
deal  of  explaining  on  the  part  of  one  who  has  posed 
for  three  years  as  a  bachelor. 

The  first  thing  Maxine  said  as  they  rode  (in  a 
taxi)  to  the  hotel,  was :  "But  the  streets  are  paved  I" 
Then,  "But  it's  all  electric  lighted  with  cluster 
lights!"  And,  in  final  and  utter  disgust,  "Why, 
there's  a  movie  sign  that  says,  'The  Perils  of 
Pauline.'  That  was  showing  at  the  Elite  on  Forty- 
third  Street  in  Chicago  just  the  night  before  we 
left." 

Milly  Pardee  smiled  grimly.     "Palestine's  paved, 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!         271 

£00,"  she  observed.  "And  they're  probably  running 
that  same  reel  there  next  week." 

Milly  Pardee  and  her  husband  had  a  plain  talk. 
Next  day  Sam  Pardee  rented  the  two-story  frame 
house  in  which,  for  years,  the  famous  Pardee  dinners 
were  to  be  served.  But  that  came  later.  The 
house  was  rented  with  the  understanding  that  the 
rent  was  to  be  considered  as  payment  made  toward 
final  purchase.  The  three  lived  there  in  comfort. 
Maxine  went  to  the  new  pressed-brick,  many-win 
dowed  high  school.  Milly  Pardee  was  happier  than 
she  had  been  in  all  her  wedded  life.  Sam  Pardee 
had  made  no  fortune  in  oil,  though  he  talked  in 
terms  of  millions.  In  a  burst  of  temporary  pros 
perity,  due  to  a  boom  in  some  oil-stocks  Sam  Pardee 
had  purchased  early  in  the  game,  they  had  paid 
five  thousand  dollars  down  on  the  house  and  lot. 
That  left  a  bare  thousand  to  pay.  There  were  three 
good  meals  a  day.  Milly  Pardee  belonged  to  the 
Okoochee  Woman's  Thursday  Club.  All  the  women 
in  Okoochee  seemed  to  have  come  from  St.  Louis, 
Columbus,  Omaha,  Cleveland,  Kansas  City,  and  they 
spoke  of  these  as  Back  East.  When  they  came  call 
ing  they  left  cards,  punctiliously.  They  played 
bridge,  observing  all  the  newest  rulings,  and  speaking 
with  great  elaborateness  of  manner. 

"Yours,  I  believe,  Mrs.  Tutwiler." 

"Pardon,  but  didn't  you  notice  I  played  the  ace?" 


272  GIGOLO 

Maxine  graduated  in  white,  with  a  sash.  Mrs. 
Pardee  was  on  the  committee  to  beautify  the  grounds 
around  the  M.  K.  &  T.  railroad  station.  When 
relatives  from  Back  East  (meaning  Nebraska, 
Kansas,  or  Missouri)  visited  an  Okoocheeite  cards 
were  sent  out  for  an  "At  Home,"  and  everything  was 
as  formal  as  a  court  levee  in  Victoria's  time.  Mrs. 
Pardee  began  to  talk  of  buying  an  automobile. 
The  town  was  full  of  them.  There  were  the  flivvers 
and  lower  middle-class  cars  owned  by  small  mer 
chants,  natives  (any  one  boasting  twelve  year's  resi 
dence)  and  unsuccessful  adventurers  of  the  Sam 
Pardee  type.  Then  there  were  the  big,  high-powered 
scouting  cars  driven  by  steely-eyed,  wiry,  cold 
blooded  young  men  from  Pennsylvania  and  New 
York.  These  young  men  had  no  women-folk  with 
them.  Held  conferences  in  smoke-filled  rooms  at 
the  Okmulgee  Hotel.  The  main  business  street  was 
called  Broadway,  and  the  curb  on  either  side  was 
hidden  by  lines  of  cars  drawn  up  slantwise  at  an 
angle  of  ninety.  No  farmer  wagons.  A  small 
town  with  all  the  airs  of  a  big  one;  with  none  of 
the  charming  informality  of  the  old  Southern  small 
town;  none  of  the  engaging  ruggedness  of  the  estab 
lished  Middle- Western  town ;  none  of  the  faded  gen 
tility  of  the  old  New  England  town.  A  strident 
dame,  this,  in  red  satin  and  diamonds,  insisting  that 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!    273 

she  is  a  lady.  Interesting,  withal,  and  bulging  with 
personality  and  possibility. 

Milly  Pardee  loved  it.  She  belonged.  She  was 
chairman  of  this  committee  and  secretary  of  that. 
Okoochee  was  always  having  parades,  with  floats, 
sponsored  by  the  Chamber  of  Commerce  of  Okoochee 
and  distinguished  by  schoolgirls  grouped  on  bunt 
ing-covered  motor  trucks,  their  hair  loose  and  lately 
relieved  from  crimpers,  three  or  four  inches  of  sen 
sible  shirt-sleeve  showing  below  the  flowing  lines  of 
their  cheesecloth  Grecian  robes.  Maxine  was  often 
one  of  these.  Yes,  Milly  Pardee  was  happy. 

Sam  Pardee  was  not.  He  began,  suddenly,  to  talk 
of  Mexico.  Frankly,  he  was  bored.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  owned  a  house — or  nearly.  There 
was  eleven  hundred  dollars  in  the  bank.  Roast  on 
Sunday.  Bathroom  shelf  to  be  nailed  Sunday  morn 
ing.  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  Rotary  Club,  Knights  of  Columbus, 
Kiwanis,  Boy  Scouts. 

"Hell,"  said  Sam  Pardee,  "this  town's  no  good." 

Milly  Pardee  took  a  last  stand.  "Sam  Pardee, 
I'll  never  leave  here.  I'm  through  traipsing  up  and 
down  the  world  with  you,  like  a  gypsy.  I  want  a 
home.  I  want  to  be  settled.  I  want  to  stay  here. 
And  I'm  going  to." 

"You're  sure  you  want  to  stay?" 

"I've  moved  for  the  last  time.  I — I'm  going  to 
plant  a  Burbank  clamberer  at  the  side  of  the  porch, 


274  GIGOLO 

and  they  don't  begin  to  flower  till  after  the  first 
ten  years.  That's  how  sure  I  am." 

There  came  a  look  into  Sam  Pardee's  eyes  He 
rubbed  his  neat  brown  derby  round  and  round  with 
his  coat  sleeve.  He  was  just  going  out. 

"Well,  that's  all  right.  I  just  wanted  to  know. 
Where's  Max?" 

"She  stayed  late.  They're  rehearsing  for  the 
Pageant  of  Progress  down  at  the  Library." 

Sam  Pardee  looked  thoughtful — a  little  regretful, 
one  might  almost  have  said.  Then  he  clapped  on 
the  brown  derby,  paused  on  the  top  step  of  the  porch 
to  light  his  cigar,  returned  the  greeting  of  young 
Arnold  Hatch  who  was  sprinkling  the  lawn  next 
door,  walked  down  the  street  with  the  quick,  nervous 
step  that  characterized  him,  boarded  the  outgoing 
train  for  God  knows  where,  and  was  never  heard 
from  again. 

"Well,"  said  the  worse-than-widowed  (it  was  her 
own  term),  "we've  got  the  home." 

She  set  about  keeping  it.  We  know  that  she  had 
a  gift  for  cooking  that  amounted  almost  to  culinary 
inspiration.  Pardee's  dinners  became  an  institu 
tion  in  Okoochee.  Mrs.  Pardee  cooked.  Maxine 
served.  And  not  even  the  great  new  stucco  palaces 
on  the  Edgecombe  Road  boasted  finer  silver,  more 
exquisite  napery.  As  for  the  food — old  Clem 
Barstow  himself,  who  had  a  chef  and  a  butler  and 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!    275 

sent  east  for  lobster  and  squabs  weekly,  came  to 
Pardee's  when  he  wanted  a  real  meal.  From  the 
first  they  charged  one  dollar  and  fifty  cents  for 
their  dinners.  Okoochee,  made  mellow  by  the  steam 
ing  soup,  the  savoury  meats,  the  bland  sauces  and 
rich  dessert,  paid  it  ungrudgingly.  They  served  only 
eighteen — no  more,  though  Okoochee  could  never  un 
derstand  why.  On  each  dinner  Mrs.  Pardee  made 
a  minimum  of  seventy-five  cents.  Eighteen  times 
seventy-five  .  .  .  naught  and  carry  the  four 
naught  .  .  .  five  .  .  .  thirteen- 
fifty  .  .  .  seven  times  .  .  .  well,  ninety- 
five  dollars  or  thereabouts  each  week  isn't  so  bad. 
Out  of  this  Mrs.  Pardee  managed  to  bank  a  neat  sum. 
She  figured  that  at  the  end  of  ten  or  fifteen  years  .  . . 

"I  hate  them,"  said  Maxine,  washing  dishes  in 
the  kitchen.  "Greedy  pigs." 

"They're  nothing  of  the  kind.  They  like  good 
food,  and  I'm  thankful  they  do.  If  they  didn't  I 
don't  know  where  I'd  be." 

"We  might  be  anywhere — so  long  as  it  could  be 
away  from  here.  Dull,  stupid,  stick-in-the-muds, 
all  of  them." 

"Why,  they're  no  such  thing,  Maxine  Pardee! 
They're  from  all  over  the  world,  pretty  nearly. 
Why,  just  last  Thursday  they  were  counting  there 
were  sixteen  different  states  represented  in  the  eigh 
teen  people  that  sat  down  to  dinner." 


276  GIGOLO 

"Pooh!     States!     That  isn't  the  world." 

"What  is,  then?" 

Maxine  threw  out  her  arms,  sprinkling  dish-water 
from  her  dripping  finger  tips  with  the  wide-flung 
gesture.  "Cairo!  Zanzibar!  Brazil!  Trinidad! 
Seville — uh — Samar — Samarkand." 

"Where's  Samarkand?" 

"I  don't  know.  And  I'm  going  to  see  it  all  some 
day.  And  the  different  people.  The  people  that 
travel,  and  know  about  what  kind  of  wine  with  the 
roast  and  the  fish.  You  know — the  kind  in  the 
novels  that  say,  'You've  chilled  this  sauterne  too 
much,  Bemish.' ' 

"And  when  you  do  see  all  these  places,"  retorted 
Mrs.  Pardee,  with  the  bitterness  born  of  long  years 
of  experience,  "you'll  find  that  in  every  one  of  them 
somebody's  got  a  boarding  house  called  Pardee's, 
or  something  like  that,  where  the  people  flock  same's 
they  do  here,  for  a  good  meal." 

"Yes,  but  what  kind  of  people?" 

"Same  kind  that  comes  here."  Sam  Pardee  had 
once  taken  his  wife  to  see  a  performance  of  The 
Man  From  Home  when  that  comedy  was  at  the 
height  of  its  popularity.  A  line  from  this  play 
flashed  into  Mrs.  Pardee's  mind  now,  and  she  para 
phrased  it  deftly.  "There  are  just  as  many  kinds 
of  people  in  Okoochee  as  there  are  in  Zanzibar." 

"I  don't  believe  it." 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!        277 

"Well,  it's  so.  And  I'm  thankful  we've  got  the 
comforts  of  home." 

At  this  Maxine  laughed  a  sharp  little  laugh  that 
was  almost  a  bark.  Perhaps  she  was  justified. 

The  eighteen  straggled  in  between  six  and  six- 
thirty,  nightly.  A  mixture  of  townspeople  and 
strangers.  While  Maxine  poured  the  water  in  the 
dining  room  the  neat  little  parlour  became  a  mess. 
The  men  threw  hats  and  overcoats  on  the  backs  of 
the  chairs.  Their  rubbers  slopped  under  them. 
They  rarely  troubled  to  take  them  off.  While  wait 
ing  avidly  for  dinner  to  be  served  they  struck 
matches  and  lighted  cigarettes  and  cigars.  Some 
times  they  called  in  to  Maxine,  "Say,  girlie,  when'll 
supper  be  ready?  I'm  'bout  gone." 

The  women  trotted  upstairs,  chattering,  and 
primped  and  fussed  in  Maxine's  neat  and  austere 
little  bedroom.  They  used  Maxine's  powder  and 
dropped  it  about  on  the  tidy  dresser  and  the  floor. 
They  brushed  away  only  what  had  settled  on  the 
front  of  their  dresses.  They  forgot  to  switch  off 
the  electric  light,  leaving  Maxine  to  do  it,  thriftily, 
between  serving  courses.  Every  penny  counted. 
Every  penny  meant  release. 

After  dinner  Maxine  and  her  mother  sat  down 
to  eat  off  the  edge  of  the  kitchen  table.  It  was 
often  nine  o'clock  before  the  last  straggling  diner, 
sprawling  on  the  parlour  davenport  with  his  evening 


278  GIGOLO 

paper  and  cigar,  departed,  leaving  Maxine  to  pick 
up  the  scattered  newspapers,  cigarette  butts,  ashes ; 
straighten  chairs,  lock  doors. 

Then  the  dishes.     The  dishes ! 

When  Arnold  Hatch  asked  her  to  go  to  a  movie 
she  shook  her  head,  usually.  "I'm  too  tired.  I'm 
going  to  read,  in  bed." 

"Read,  read !  That's  all  you  do.  What're  you 
reading?" 

"Oh,  about  Italy.  La  bel  Napoli!"  She  col 
lected  travel  folders  and  often  talked  in  their  terms. 
In  her  mind  she  always  said  "brooding  Vesuvius" ; 
"blue  Mediterranean";  "azure  coasts";  "Egypt's 
golden  sands." 

Arnold  Hatch  ate  dinner  nightly  at  Pardee's.  He 
lived  in  the  house  next  door,  which  he  owned,  rent 
ing  it  to  an  Okoochee  family  and  retaining  the  up 
stairs  front  bedroom  for  himself.  A  tall,  thin,  eye- 
glassed  young  man  who  worked  in  the  offices  of  the 
Okoochee  Oil  and  Refining  Company,  believed  in 
Okoochee,  and  wanted  to  marry  Maxine.  He  had 
twice  kissed  her.  On  both  these  occasions  his  eye 
glasses  had  fallen  off,  taking  the  passion,  so  to 
speak,  out  of  the  process.  When  Maxine  giggled, 
uncontrollably,  he  said,  "Go  on — laugh!  But  some 
day  I'm  going  to  kiss  you  and  I'll  take  my  glasses 
off  first.  Then  look  out !" 

You  have  to  have  a  good  deal  of  humour  to  stand 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!         279 

being  laughed  at  by  a  girl  you've  kissed;  especially 
a  girl  who  emphasizes  her  aloofness  by  wearing  those 
high-collared  white  silk  blouses. 

"You  haven't  got  a  goitre,  have  you  ?"  said  Arnold 
Hatch,  one  evening,  brutally.  Then,  as  she  had 
flared  in  protest,  "I  know  it.  I  love  that  little 
creamy  satin  hollow  at  the  base  of  your  throat." 

"You've  never  s "  The  scarlet  flamed  up.  She 

was  human. 

"I  know  it.  But  I  love  it  just  the  same."  Pretty 
good  for  a  tall  thin  young  man  who  worked  in  the 
offices  of  the  Qkoochee  Oil  and  Refining  Company. 

Sometimes  he  said,  "I'm  darned  certain  you  like 
me" — bravely — "love  me.  Why  won't  you  marry 
me?  Cut  out  all  this  slaving.  I  could  support  you. 
Not  in  much  luxury,  maybe,  but " 

"And  settle  down  in  Okoochee!  Never  see  any 
thing  !  Stuck  in  this  God-forsaken  hole !  This  drab, 
dull,  oil-soaked  village!  When  there  are  wonderful 
people,  wonderful  places,  colour,  romance,  beauty! 
Damascus!  Mandalay!  Singapore!  Hongkong! 
.  .  .  Hongkong!  It  sounds  like  a  temple  bell. 
It  thrills  me." 

"Over  in  Hongkong,"  said  Arnold  Hatch,  "I  ex 
pect  some  Chinese  Maxine  Pardee  would  say,  Okoo 
chee!  It  sounds  like  an  Indian  war  drum.  It 
thrills  me.'  " 

Sometimes  Maxine  showed  signs  of  melting.     But 


280  GIGOLO 

she  always  congealed  again  under  the  influence  of 
her  resolve.  One  evening  an  out-of-town  diner,  on 
hearing  her  name,  said,  "Pardee!  Hm.  Probably 
a  corruption  of  Pardieu.  A  French  name  originally, 
I  suppose." 

After  that  there  was  no  approaching  her  for  a 
week.  Maxine  Pardieu.  Pardieu.  "By  God !"  it 
meant.  A  chevalier  he  must  have  been,  this  Pardieu. 
A  musketeer !  A  swashbuckler,  with  lace  falling  over 
his  slim  white  hand,  and  his  hand  always  ready  on 
his  sword.  Red  heels.  Plumed  hat.  Pardieu! 

How  she  hated  anew  the  great  oil  tanks  that  rose 
on  the  town's  outskirts,  guarding  it  like  giant  sen 
tinels.  The  new  houses.  The  new  country  club. 
Twenty-one  miles  of  asphalt  road.  Population  in 
1900,  only  467.  In  1920  over  35,000.  Slogan, 
Watch  Us  Grow.  Seventeen  hundred  oil  and  gas 
wells.  Fields  of  corn  and  cotton.  Skyscrapers.  The 
Watonga  Building,  twelve  stories.  Haynes  Block, 
fourteen  stories.  Come  West,  young  man!  Ugh! 

Sometimes  she  made  little  rhymes  in  her  mind. 

There's  Singapore  and  Zanzibar, 
And  Cairo  and  Calais. 
There's  Samarkand  and  Alcazar, 
Rangoon  and  Mandalay. 

"Yeh,"  said  Arnold  Hatch,  one  evening,  when 
they  were  talking  in  the  Pardee  back  yard.  It  was 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!        281 

nine  o'clock.  Dishes  done.  A  moon.  October. 
Maxine  had  just  murmured  her  little  quatrain.  They 
were  standing  by  the  hedge  of  pampas  grass  that 
separated  the  Pardee  yard  from  Hatch's  next  door. 
"Yeh,"  said  Arnold  Hatch.  "Likewise: 

"There's  Seminole  and  Shawnee, 
Apache,  Agawam. 
There's  Agua  and  Pawnee, 
Walonga,  Waukeetom." 

He  knew  his  Oklahoma. 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  Maxine,  in  a  little  burst  of  fury ; 
and  stamped  her  foot  down  hard.  Squ-ush!  said 
something  underfoot.  "Oh !"  said  Maxine  again ;  in 
surprise  this  time.  October  was  a  dry  month.'  She 
peered  down.  Her  shoe  was  wet.  A  slimy  some 
thing  clung  to  it.  A  scummy  something  shone  re 
flected  in  the  moonlight.  She  had  not  lived  ten 
years  in  Oklahoma  for  nothing.  Arnold  Hatch 
bent  down.  Maxine  bent  down.  The  greasy  wet 
patch  lay  just  between  the  two  back  yards.  They 
touched  it,  fearfully,  with  their  forefingers.  Then 
they  straightened  and  looked  at  each  other.  Oil. 
Oil! 

Things  happened  like  that  in  Oklahoma. 

You  didn't  try  to  swing  a  thing  like  that  yourself. 
You  leased  3Tour  land  for  a  number  of  years.  A 


282  GIGOLO 

well  cost  between  forty  and  sixty  thousand  dollars. 
You  leased  to  a  company  represented  by  one  or  two 
of  those  cold-blooded  steely-eyed  young  men  from 
Pennsylvania  or  New  York.  There  was  a  good  deal 
of  trouble  about  it,  too.  This  was  a  residence  dis 
trict — one  of  the  oldest  in  this  new  town.  But  they 
bought  the  Pardee  place  and  the  Hatch  place. 
Ard  Arnold  Hatch,  who  had  learned  a  thing  or  two 
in  the  offices  of  the  Okoochee  Oil  and  Refining  Com 
pany,  drove  a  hard  bargain  for  both.  The  yard 
was  overrun  with  drillers,  lawyers,  engineers,  super 
intendents,  foremen,  machinery. 

Arnold  came  with  papers  to  sign.  "Five  hun 
dred  a  day,"  he  said,  "and  a  percentage."  He 
named  the  percentage.  Maxine  and  her  mother  re 
peated  this  after  him,  numbly. 

Mrs.  Pardee  had  been  the  book-keeper  in  the 
Pardee  menage.  She  tried  some  mathematical  gym 
nastics  now  and  bumped  her  arithmetical  nose. 

"Five  hundred  a  day.  Including  Sundays, 
Arnold?" 

"Including  Sundays." 

Her  lips  began  to  move.  "Seven  times  five  .  .  . 
thirty-five  hundred  a  ...  fifty-two  times 
thirty " 

She  stopped,  overcome.  But  she  began  again, 
wildly,  as  a  thought  came  to  her.  "Why,  I  could 
build  a  house.  A  house,  up  on  Edgecombe.  A 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!         283 

house  like  the  Barstows'  with  lawns,  and  gardens, 
and  sleeping  porches,  and  linen  closets!  .  .  . 
Oh,  Maxine !  We'll  live  there " 

"Not  I,"  said  Maxine,  crisply.  Arnold,  watching 
her,  knew  what  she  was  going  to  say  before  she  said 
it.  "I'm  going  to  see  the  world.  I  want  to  pene 
trate  a  civilization  so  old  that  its  history  wanders 
down  the  centuries  and  is  lost  in  the  dim  mists  of 
mythology."  [See  Baedeker.] 

Sudden  wealth  had  given  Arnold  a  new  master 
fulness.  "Marry  me  before  you  go." 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  Maxine.  "On  the  boat  going 
over " 

"Over  where?" 

"Honolulu,  on  my  way  to  Japan,  I'll  meet  a  tall 
bearded  stranger,  sunburned,  with  the  flame  of  the 
Orient  in  his  eyes,  and  on  his  thin,  cruel,  sensual 
mouth " 

Arnold  Hatch  took  off  his  glasses.  Maxine 

stiffened.  "Don't  you  d "  But  she  was  too 

late. 

"There,"  said  Arnold,  "he'll  have  to  have  some 
beard,  and  some  flame,  and  some  thin,  cruel,  sensual 
mouth  to  make  you  forget  that  one." 

Maxine  started,  alone,  against  her  mother's  re 
monstrances.  After  she'd  picked  out  her  boat  she 
changed  to  another  because  she  learned,  at  the  last 
minute,  that  the  first  boat  was  an  oil-burner.  Being 


284  GIGOLO 

an  inexperienced  traveller  she  took  a  good  many 
trunks  and  was  pretty  unpopular  with  the  steward 
before  he  could  make  her  understand  that  one  trunk 
to  the  stateroom  was  the  rule.  On  the  first  two  days 
out  on  the  way  to  the  Hawaiian  Islands  she  spent 
all  her  time  (which  was  twenty-four  hours  a  day 
in  her  bed)  hoping  that  Balboa  was  undergoing- 
fitting  torment  in  punishment  for  his  little  joke 
about  discovering  the  so-called  Pacific  Ocean.  But 
the  swell  subsided,  and  the  wind  went  down,  and 
Maxine  appeared  on  deck  and  in  another  twelve 
hours  had  met  everyone  from  the  purser  to  the 
honeymoon  couple,  in  the  surprising  way  one  does 
on  these  voyages.  She  looked  for  the  tall  bearded 
stranger  with  the  sunburn  of  the  Orient  and  the  thin, 
cruel,  sensual  lips.  But  he  didn't  seem  to  be  about. 
Strangely  enough,  everyone  she  talked  to  seemed  to 
be  from  Nebraska,  or  Kcinsas,  or  Iowa,  or  Missouri. 
Not  only  that,  they  all  were  very  glib  with  names 
and  places  that  had  always  seemed  mythical  and 
glamorous. 

"Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Tannenbaum  and  I  went  to  India 
last  year,  and  Persia  and  around.  Real  interest 
ing.  My,  but  they're  dirty,  those  towns.  We  used 
to  kick  about  Des  Moines,  now  that  they  use  so 
much  soft  coal,  and  all  the  manufacturing  and  all. 
But  my  land,  it's  paradise  compared  to  those  places. 
And  the  food !  Only  decent  meals  we  had  in  Egypt 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!        285 

was  a  place  in  Cairo  called  Pardee's,  run  by  a 
v,  oman  whose  husband's  left  her  or  died,  or  some 
thing.  Real  home-loving  woman  she  was.  Such 
cooking  .  .  .  Why,  that's  so!  Your  name's 
Pardee,  too,  isn't  it!  Well,  I  always  say  to  Mr. 
Tannenbaum,  it's  a  small  world,  after  all.  No  rela 
tion,  of  course?" 

"Of  course  not."  How  suddenly  safe  Oklahoma 
seemed.  And  Arnold  Hatch. 

"Where  you  going  from  Honolulu,  Miss  Pardee?" 
"Samarkand." 
"Beg  pardon?" 
"Samarkand." 

"Oh,  yeh.  Samar — le'  see  now,  where  is  that, 
exactly?  I  used  to  know,  but  I'm  such  a  hand  for 

forgetting " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maxine,  distinctly. 

"Don't — but     I     thought     you     said     you    were 

going " 

"I  am.     But  I  don't  know  where  it  is." 

"Then  how " 

"You  just  go  to  an  office,  where  there  are  folders 
and  a  man  behind  the  desk,  and  you  say  you  want 
to  go  to  Samarkand.  He  shows  you.  You  get 
on  a  boat.  That's  all." 

The  people  from  Iowa,  and  Kansas,  and  Nebraska 
and  Missouri  said,  Oh,  yes,  and  there  was  nothing 
like  travel.  So  broadening.  Maxine  asked  them  if 


286  GIGOLO 

they  knew  about  the  Vale  of  Kashmir  and  one  of 
them,  astoundingly  enough,  did.  A  man  from  Mil 
waukee,  Wisconsin,  who  had  spent  a  year  there  super 
intending  the  erection  of  a  dredge.  A  plump  man, 
with  eyeglasses  and  perpetually  chewing  a  dead 
cigar. 

Gold  and  sunlight,  myrrh  and  incense,  the  tinkling 
of  anklets.  Maxine  clung  to  these  wildly,  in  her 
mind. 

But  Honolulu,  the  Moana  Hotel  on  Waikiki 
Beach,  reassured  her.  It  was  her  dream  come  true. 
She  knew  it  would  be  so  when  she  landed  and  got 
her  first  glimpse  of  the  dark-skinned  natives  on  the 
docks,  their  hats  and  necks  laden  with  leis  of  flowers. 
There  were  palm  trees.  There  were  flaming  hibis 
cus  hedges.  Her  bed  was  canopied  with  white  net 
ting,  like  that  of  a  princess  (the  attendant  explained 
it  was  to  keep  out  the  mosquitoes). 

You  ate  strange  fruits  (they  grew  a  little  sick 
ening,  after  a  day  or  two).  You  saw  Duke,  the 
Hawaiian  world  champion  swimmer,  come  in  on  a 
surf-board,  standing  straight  and  slim  and  naked 
like  a  god  of  bronze,  balancing  miraculously  on  a 
plank  carried  in  on  the  crest  of  a  wave  with  the 
velocity  of  a  steam  engine.  You  saw  Japanese  women 
in  tight  kimonos  and  funny  little  stilted  flapping 
footgear  running  to  catch  a  street  car;  and  you 
laughed  at  the  incongruity  of  it.  You  made  the 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!         287 

three-day  trip  to  the  living  volcano  at  Hilo  and  sat 
at  the  crater's  brink  watching  the  molten  lava  lake 
tossing,  hissing,  writhing.  You  hung  there,  between 
horror  and  fascination. 

"Certainly  a  pretty  sight,  isn't  it?"  said  her 
fellow  travellers.  "Makes  the  Grand  Canyon  look 
sick,  I  think,  don't  you?" 

"I've  never  seen  it." 

"Oh,  really!" 

On  her  return  from  Hilo  she  saw  him.  A  Vandyke 
beard ;  smouldering  eyes ;  thin  red  lips ;  lean  nervous 
hands;  white  flannel  evening  clothes;  sunburned  a 
rich  brown.  Maxine  drew  a  long  breath  as  if  she 
had  been  running.  It  was  after  dinner.  The  broad 
veranda  was  filled  with  gayly  gowned  women;  uni 
formed  officers  from  the  fort;  tourists  in  white. 
They  were  drinking  their  after-dinner  coffee,  smok 
ing,  laughing.  The  Hawaiian  orchestra  made  ready 
to  play  for  the  dancing  on  the  veranda.  They  be 
gan  to  play.  Their  ukeleles  throbbed  and  moaned. 
The  musicians  sang  in  their  rich,  melodious  voices 
some  native  song  of  a  lost  empire  and  a  dead  king. 
It  tore  at  your  heart.  You  ached  with  the  savage 
beauty  of  it.  It  was  then  she  saw  him.  He  was 
seated  alone,  smoking,  drinking,  watching  the  crowd 
with  amused,  uneager  glance.  She  had  seen  him 
before.  It  was  a  certainty,  this  feeling.  She  had 
known  him — seen  him — before.  Perhaps  not  in  this 


288  GIGOLO 

life.  Perhaps  only  in  her  dreams.  But  they  had 
met. 

She  stared  at  him  until  her  eye  caught  his.  It 
was  brazen,  but  she  was  shameless.  Nothing  mat 
tered.  This  was  no  time  for  false  modesty.  Her 
eyes  held  his.  Then,  slowly,  she  rose,  picked  up  her 
trailing  scarf,  and  walked  deliberately  past  him, 
glancing  down  at  him  as  she  passed.  He  half  rose, 
half  spoke.  She  went  down  the  steps  leading  from 
the  veranda  to  the  court-yard,  down  this  walk  to 
the  pier,  down  the  pier  to  the  very  end,  where  the 
little  roofed  shelter  lay  out  in  the  ocean,  bathed  in 
moonlight,  fairylike,  unreal.  The  ocean  was  a  thing 
of  molten  silver.  The  sound  of  the  wailing  voices 
in  song  carne  to  her  on  the  breeze,  agonizing  in  its 
beauty.  There,  beyond,  lay  Pearl  Harbour.  From 
the  other  side,  faintly,  you  heard  the  music  and 
laughter  from  the  Yacht  Club. 

Maxine  seated  herself.  The  after-dinner  couples 
had  not  yet  strolled  out.  They  were  waiting  for  the 
dancing  up  there  on  the  hotel  veranda.  She  waited. 
She  waited.  She  saw  the  glow  of  his  cigar  as  he  came 
down  the  pier,  a  tall,  slim  white  figure  in  the  moon 
light.  It  was  just  like  a  novel.  It  was  a  novel,  come 
to  life.  He  stood  a  moment  at  the  pier's  edge,  smok 
ing.  Then  he  tossed  his  cigar  into  the  water  and  it 
fell  with  a  little  s-st !  He  stood  another  moment,  ir 
resolutely.  Then  he  came  over  to  her. 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!        289 

"Nice  night." 

In  Okoochee  you  would  have  said,  "Sir !"  But 
not  here.  Not  now.  Not  Maxine  Pardieu.  "Yes, 
isn't  it !" 

The  mellow  moon  fell  full  on  him — bronzed, 
bearded,  strangely  familiar. 

At  his  next  question  she  felt  a  little  faint. 
"Haven't  we — met  before?" 

She  toyed  with  the  end  of  her  scarf.  "You  feel 
that,  too?" 

He  nodded.  He  took  a  cigarette  from  a  flat  plat 
inum  case.  "Mind  if  I  smoke?  Perhaps  you'll 
join  me?"  Maxine  took  a  cigarette,  uncertainly. 
Lighted  it  from  the  match  he  held.  Put  it  to  her  lips. 
Coughed,  gasped.  "Maybe  you're  not  used  to  those. 
I  smoke  a  cheap  cigarette  because  I  like  'em.  Drom 
edaries,  those  are.  Eighteen  cents  a  package." 

Maxine  held  the  cigarette  in  her  unaccustomed 
fingers.  Her  eyes  were  on  his  face.  "You  said  you 
thought — j^ou  felt — we'd  met  before?" 

"I  may  be  mistaken,  but  I  never  forget  a  face. 
Where  arc  you  from,  may  I  ask?" 

Maxine  hesitated  a  moment.     "Oklahoma." 

He  slapped  his  leg  a  resounding  thwack.  "I  knew 
it!  I'm  hardly  ever  mistaken.  Name's — wait  a 
minute — Pardee,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes.     But  how " 

"One  of  the  best  meals  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  Miss 


290  GIGOLO 

Pardee.  Two  years  ago,  it  was.  I  was  lecturing  on 
Thibet  and  the  Far  East." 

"Lecturing?"  Her  part  of  the  conversation  was 
beginning  to  sound  a  good  deal  like  the  dialogue  in  a 
badly  written  play. 

"Yes,  I'm  Brainerd,  you  know.  I  thought  you 
knew,  when  you  spoke  up  there  on  the  veranda." 

"Brainerd?"     It  was  almost  idiotic. 

"Brainerd.  Paul  Brainerd,  the  travelogue  man. 
I  remember  I  gave  you  and  your  mother  compli 
mentary  tickets  to  the  lecture.  I've  got  a  great 
memory.  Got  to  have,  in  my  business.  Let's  see, 
that  town  was " 

"Okoochee,"  faintly. 

"Okoochee !  That's  it !  It's  a  small  world  after 
all,  isn't  it?  Okoochee.  Why,  I'm  on  my  way  to 
Oklahoma  now.  I'm  going  to  spend  two  months  or 
more  there,  taking  pictures  of  the  vast  oil  fields,  the 
oil  wells.  A  new  country.  An  Aladdin  country ;  a 
new  growth;  one  of  the  most  amazing  and  pictur 
esque  bits  in  the  history  of  our  amazing  country. 
History  in  the  making.  An  empire  over-night. 
Oklahoma!  Well!  What  a  relief,  after  war-torn 
Europe  and  an  out-worn  civilization." 

"But  you — you're  from ?" 

"I'm  from  East  Orange,  New  Jersey,  myself.  Got 
a  nice  little  place  down  there  that  I  wouldn't  swap 
for  all  the  palaces  of  the  kings.  No  sir!  .  .  . 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  TRAVEL!        291 

Already?  Well,  yes,  it  is  a  little  damp  out  here, 
so  close  to  the  water.  Mrs.  Brainerd  won't  risk  it. 
I'll  walk  up  with  you.  I'd  like  to  have  you  meet 
her." 


THE    EBTD 


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THE  GENTLEMAN  j?ROM  INDIANA.    Frontispiece. 

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The  "  Flirt,"  the  younger  of  two  sisters,  breaks  one  girl's 
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The  triumph  of  a  dauntless  spirit  over  adverse  conditions. 

THE  HEART  OF  RACHAEL. 
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,     Kate  Bates,  the  heroine  of  this  story,  is  a  true  "Daughter  of  the 
Land,"  and  to  read  about  her  is  truly  inspiring. 

MICHAEL  O'HALLORAN.    Illustrated  by  Frances  Rogers. 

Michael  is  a  quick-witted  little  Irish  newsboy,  living  in  Northern 
Indiana.  He  adopts  a  deserted  little  girl,  a  cripple.  He  also  aspires 
to  lead  the  entire  rural  community  upward  and  onward. 

LADDIE.     Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  with  the  scenes  laid  in  Indiana.  The 
story  is  told  by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  of  a  large  family, 
but  it  is  concerned  not  so  much  with  childish  doings  as  with  the  love 
affairs  of  older  members  of  the  family. 

THE  HARVESTER.     Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 

"The  Harvester,"  is  a  man  of  the  woods  and  fields,  and  is  well 
•worth  knowing,  but  when  the  Girl  comes  to  his  "Medicine  Woods," 
there  begins  a  romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 

FRECKLES.     Illustrated. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  in 
which  he  takes  hold  of  life  ;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  ;  and 
his  love-story  with  "The  Angel "  are  full  of  real  sentiment. 

A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST.     Illustrated. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods  ;  a  buoyant,  loveable 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  toward  all  things  ;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed. 

AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW.     Illustrations  in  colors. 

The  scene  of  this  charming:  love  storv  is  laid  in  Central  Indiana. 
It  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrificing  love. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  CARDINAL.     Profusely  Illustrated. 

A  love  ideal  of  the  Cardinal  bird  and  his  mate,  told  with  delicacy 
and  humor. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


ELFANQR  H.  PORTER'S  NOVELS 

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JUST  DAVID 

The  tale  of  a  loveable  boy  and  the  place  he  comes  to 
fill  in  the  hearts  of  the  gruff  farmer  folk  to  whose  care  he 
is  left. 

THE  ROAD  TO  UNDERSTANDING 

A  compelling  romance  of  love  and  marriage. 
OH,  MONEY  !   MONEY  ! 

Stanley  Fulton,  a  wealthy  bachelor,  to  test  the  disposi 
tions  of  his  relatives,  sends  them  each  a  check  for  $100,- 
000,  and  then  as  plain  John  Smith  comes  among  them  to 
watch  the  result  of  his  experiment. 

SIX  STAR  RANCH 

A  wholesome  story  of  a  club  of  six  girls  and  their  sum 
mer  on  Six  Star  Ranch. 

DAWN 

The  story  of  a  blind  boy  whose  courage  leads  him 
through  the  gulf  of  despair  into  a  final  victory  gained  by 
dedicating  his  life  to  the  service  of  blind  soldiers. 

ACROSS  THE  YEARS 

Short  stories  of  our  own  kind  and  of  our  own  people. 
Contains  some  of  the  best  writing  Mrs.  Porter  has  done. 

THE  TANGLED  THREADS 

In  these  stories  we  find  the  concentrated  charm  and 
tenderness  of  all  her  other  books. 

THE  TIE  THAT  BINDS 

Intensely  ^uman  stories  told  with  Mrs.  Porter's  won 
derful  talent  for  warm  and  vivid  character  drawing. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


ETHEL    M.    DELL'S    NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  ire  sold.     Ask  for  Srosset  ft  Duntap'*  list. 

CHARLES  REX 

The  struggle  against  a  hidden  secret  and  the  love  of  a 
strong  man  and  a  courageous  woman. 
THE  TOP  OF  THE  WORLD 

Tells  of  the  path  which  leads  at  last  to  the  ' '  top  of  die 
world,"  which  it  is  given  to  few  seekers  to  find. 
THE  LAMP  IN  THE  DESERT 

Tells  of  the  lamp  of  love  that  continues  to  shine  through 
all  sorts  of  tribulations  to  final  happiness. 
GREATHEART 

The  story  of  a  cripple  whose  deformed  body  conceals 
a  noble  soul 
THE  HUNDREDTH  CHANCE 

A  hero  who  worked  to  win  even  when  there  was  only 
<c  a  hundredth  chance." 
THE  SWINDLER 

The    story   of    a     'bad    man's"    soul    revealed    by  a 
woman  s   faith 
THE  TIDAL  WAVE 

Tales  of  love  and  of  women  who  learned  to  know  the 
true  from  the  fake. 
THE  SAFETY  CURTAIN 

A  very  vivid   love  story  of   India.     The  volume  also 
contains  four  other  long  stories  of  equal  interest 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,          PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 

—      -  -=- 


FLORENCE  L.  BARCLAY'S 
NOVELS 

May  bThad  Wherever  books  afe^soM. Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  UrtT~ 

THE  WHITE  LADIES  OF  WORCESTER 

A  novel  of  tiie  i^th  Century.  The  heroine,  believing  she 
had  lost  her  lover,  enters  a  convent.  He  returns,  and  ia- 
teresting  developments  follow. 

THE  UPAS  TREE 

A  love  story  of  rare  charm.  It  deals  with  a  successful 
author  and  his  wife. 

THROUGH  THE  POSTERN  GATE 

The  story  of  a  seven  day  courtship,  in  which  the  dis 
crepancy  in  ages  vanished  into  insignificance  before  the 
convincing  demonstration  of  abiding  love. 

THE  ROSARY 

The  story  of  a  young  artist  who  is  reputed  to  love  beauty 
above  all  else  in  the  world,  but  who,  when  blinded  through 
an  Accident,  gains  life's  greatest  happiness.  A  rare  story 
of  the  great  passion  of  two  real  people  superbly  capable  of 
love,  its  sacrifices  and  its  exceeding  reward. 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

The  lovely  young  Lady  Ingleby,  recently  widowed  by  the 
death  of  a  husband  who  never  understood  her,  meets  a  fine, 
clean  young  chap  who  is  ignorant  of  her  title  and  they  fall 
deeply  in  love  with  each  other.  When  he  learns  her  real 
identity  a  situation  of  singular  power  is  developed. 

THE  BROKEN  HALO 

The  story  of  a  young  man  whose  religious  belief  was 
shattered  in  childhood  and  restored  to  him  by  the  little 
white  lady,  many  years  older  than  himself,  to  whom  he  is 
passionately  devoted. 

THE  FOLLOWING  OF  THE  STAR 

The  story  of  a  young  missionary,  who,  about  to  start  for 
Africa,  marries  wealthy  Diana  Rivers,  in  order  to  help  her 
fulfill  the  conditions  of  her  uncle's  will,  and  how  they  finally 
come  to  love  each  other  and  are  reunited  after  experiences 
that  soften  and  purify. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,~~      PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

GRACE     LIVINGSTON     HILL 

(MRS.  LUTZ) 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  and  Dunlap's  list 
BEST  MAN,  THE 
CLOUDY  JEWEL 
DAWN  OF  THE  MORNING 
ENCHANTED  BARN,  THE 
EXIT  BETTY 

FINDING  OF  JASPER  HOLT.  THE 
GIRL  FROM  MONTANA,  THE 
LO,  MICHAEL  1 
MAN  OF  THE  DESERT,  THE 
MARCIA  SCHUYLER 
MIRANDA 

MYSTERY  OF  MARY.  THE 
OBSESSION  OF  VICTORIA  GRACEN,  THE 
PHOEBE  DEANE 
RED  SIGNAL.  THE 
SEARCH,  THE 
TRYST,  THE 

VOICE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS,  A 
WITNESS,  THE 

A*k    for  Complete   free  list  of  G.   &   D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


JAMES  OLIVER  CURWOOD'S 

STORIES  OF  ADVENTURE 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

THE  COUNTRY  BEYOND 

THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

THE  VALLEY  OF  SILENT  MEN 

THE  RIVER'S  END 

THE  GOLDEN  SNARE 

NOMADS  OF  THE  NORTH 

KAZAN 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

ISOBEL 

THE  WOLF   HUNTERS 

THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 


Ask    for  Complete   free  list  of  G.   &   D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,    PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

MARY  ROBERTS    RINEHART 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.    Ask  for  Grossst  &  Dunfap's  list. 


DANGEROUS  DAYS. 

A  brilliant  story  of  married  life.  A  romance  of  fine  purpose  and 
stirring  appeal. 

THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE. 

Illustrations  by  The  Kinneys. 

The  story  of  a  great  love  which  cannot  be  pictured — an  interlude 
— amazing,  romantic. 

LOVE  STORIES. 

This  book  is  exactly  what  its  title  indicates,  a  collection  of  love 
affairs — sparkling  with  humor,  tenderness  and  sweetness. 

"K."    Illustrated. 

K.   LeMoyne,  famous  surgeon,  goes  to  live  in  a  little  town  where  , 
beautiful  Sidney  Page  lives.    She  is  in  training  to  become  a  nurse. 
The  joys  and  troubles  of  their  young  love  are  told  with  keen  and 
sympathetic  appreciation. 

THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN. 

Illustrated  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 

An  absorbing  detective  story  woven  around  the  mysterious  death 
of  the  "  Man  in  Lower  Ten." 

WHEN  A  MAN  MARRIES. 

Illustrated  by  Harrison  Fisher  and  Mayo  Bunker. 

A  young  artist,  whose  wife  had  recently  divorced  him,  finds  that 
his  aunt  is  soon  to  visit  him.  The  aunt,  who  contributes  to  the 
family  income,  knows  nothing  of  the  domestic  upheaval.  How  the 
young  man  met  the  situation  is  entertainingly  told. 

THE  CIRCULAR  STAIRCASE.   Illustrated  by  Lester  Ralph. 

The  occupants  of  "Sunnyside  "  find  the  dead  body  of  Arnold 
Armstrong  on  the  circular  staircase.  Following  the  murder  a  bank 
failure  is  announced.  Around  these  two  events  is  woven  a  plot  of 
absorbing  interest. 

THE  STREET  OF  SEVEN  STARS.  (Photoplay  Edition.) 

Harmony  Wells,  studying  in  Vienna  to  be  a  great  violinist,  sud 
denly  realizes  that  her  money  is  almost  gone.  She  meets  a  young 
ambitious  doctor  who  offers  her  chivalry  and  sympathy,  and  together 
with  world-worn  Dr.  Anna  and  Jimmie,  the  waif,  they  share  their 
love  and  slender  means. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


RUBY  M.   AYRE'S    NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.       Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list.  ~ 

RICHARD  CHATTERTON 

A  fascinating  story  in  which  love  and  jealousy  play 
strange  tricks  with  women's  souls. 

A  BACHELOR  HUSBAND 

Can  a  woman  love  two  men  at  the  same  time  ? 

In  its  solving  of  this  particular  variety  of  triangle  "  A 
Bachelor  Husband  "  will  particularly  interest,  and  strangely 
enough,  without  one  shock  to  the  most  conventional  minded. 

THE  SCAR 

With  fine  comprehension  and  insight  the  author  shows  a 
terrific  contrast  between  the  woman  whose  love  was  of  the 
flesh  and  one  whose  love  was  of  the  spirit. 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF  BARRY  WICKLOW 

Here  is  a  man  and  woman  who,  marrying  for  love,  yet  try 
to  build  their  wedded  life  upon  a  gospel  of  hate  for  each 
other  and  yet  win  back  to  a  greater  love  for  each  other  in 
the  end. 

THE  UPHILL  ROAD 

The  heroine  of  this  story  was  a  consort  of  thieves.  The 
man  was  fine,  clean,  fresh  from  the  West.  It  is  a  story  of 
strength  and  passion. 

WINDS  OF  THE  WORLD 

Jill,  a  poor  little  typist,  marries  the  great  Henry  Sturgess 
and  inherits  millions,  but  not  happiness.  Then  at  last — but 
we  must  leave  that  to  Ruby  M.  Ay  res  to  tell  you  as  only 
she  can. 

THE  SECOND  HONEYMOON 

In  this  story  the  author  has  produced  a  book  which  no 
one  who  has  loved  or  hopes  to  love  can  afford  to  miss. 
The  story  fairly  leaps  from  climax  to  climax. 

THE  PHANTOM  LOVER 

Have  you  not  often  heard  of  someone  being  in  love  with 
love  rather  than  the  person  they  believed  the  object  of  their 
affections  ?  That  was  Esther !  But  she  passes  through  the 
crisis  into  a  deep  and  profound  love. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

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on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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